What's In A Name?
by 0'EmeraldEyes'0
Summary: And to the surprise of both, their actions did not feel in the least bit awkward or wrong – they felt perfect. Like the last piece of the puzzle were falling into place, sealing up that empty place in their hearts with something lukewarm and hopeful.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Just a very, very short something I wrote while not paying attention in Sociology this afternoon.It's a little taste of something I am thinking of making into an actual story, with chapters and everything. So far all I've written are one-shots, so it would be a challenge for me, but if you think it has potential let me know. Also, constructive criticism is not only appreciated, it is begged for, so please,please, give me some feedback on this, deal? Thanks alot._

The docks of Brooklyn always calmed Spot – something about the dark water and his own solitude lulled him into a false sense of security. The lapping of the waves on warped wooden docks caused him to lean his head back and listen to the night; and the murky scent and heavy air allowed him to close his eyes and become enveloped in the feeling of the summer night.

He couldn't believe what he'd done that afternoon. He and Race had been swimming: the day had been humid and both boys had been eager for a break. Spot and Race had always been friends, always shared a mutual respect and liking for one another, though they'd never exactly been _best _friends. Thinking back, however, if he'd had to admit it, Race had always been one of Spot's favorites. He appreciated the way the smart ass could always cheer him up …

Spot grinned.

But today … today had been way out of line. Spot could hardly believe he'd been so stupid. He, who had won all of Brooklyn through his cunning and sheer determination … Sure, Spot had been upset; and sure, Race happened to be an easy guy to talk to. But he had lost himself …

They'd been only a few feet away from each other, treading water, out of breath. And Spot had poured his heart out to the Italian boy. He didn't know why, but he'd opened his mouth and all of a sudden the confessions came pouring out. And then it felt too good to stop. All the secrets of a lifetime … Spot spoke of his family, his guilt, his loves, his fears … and Racetrack had listened. Then Spot had said:

"Ya know Race, not a single one a' you'se guys knows me name. How can ya' all pretend tah be such good friends wid me, an' ya don't even know me name?"

Race just shrugged – well, as best as he could shrug, expending all his energy on staying above water.

"Racetrack," Spot had said solemnly, "I want you'se tah know me name."

Race gaped. No one, I mean _no one_, knew Spot's real name. He simply _was_ "Spot" Conlon – he had no past before Brooklyn.

Racetrack couldn't think of anything to say. But Spot was certain: Racetrack's eyes were acting like a drug, making Spot weak, intoxicating him into being comfortable enough to spill his innermost thoughts. Moreover, Spot found himself wanting those big brown pools to know him. He longed for Racetrack to know_ all_ of his secrets, every last one of them … and to tell Spot that it was okay. Okay to have secrets to begin with, and okay to sometimes tell people those secrets; okay to cry at night, but also okay to laugh in the daylight; okay to fight when it was called for, and even okay to love …

"It's Benjamin."

Race wanted to cover his ears, and pretend maybe he hadn't heard it. Everything had just changed. It felt like the world, and not only his stomach, had just turned over.

"I'se not Spot Conlon, Race, I'se Benjamin Conlon."

_Benjamin …_ Race thought, his head spinning.

"SPOT!" Jack called from the dock, waving the boy over.

Spot cursed under his breath, offered Racetrack one last pleading glance, and swam away.

And though Spot could not have known this, Race had followed him with his eyes thinking, "_Benjamin … it suits him."_


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Newsies, I'm sure you've figured that out by now.

**_Author's Notes:_** _Yes, chapter two is indeed up, though it's just a transition chapter until I can decide where I really want to go with this story. So if you have any ideas, let me know. I've kind of lost my train of thought withit and I dunno how I want it to continue. Oh well, thanks for reading and for your comments. Thanks especially to Rustie, who reviews everything I write and for that is myhero lol. _

It had been quite a good selling day for the Manhattan boys. The summer heat drove nearly everyone from the humid interiors of their homes, out into the bustling streets of New York, and the newsieswere havinga field day with the abundance of potential customers. Jack, of course, with his good looks and God given talent, was practically a millionaire by the end of the day. Crutchy faired well – it was mostly the ladies who gave a kind smile and a penny when they came across the cripple with the sweet voice. And Blink and Mush, who always sold together, managed to scrape together a small fortune. Even the younger newsies like Boots did well with so many more people out and about.

Everyone was in good spirits that day. Except for Race. He couldn't keep himself thinking straight. It had been almost a week since he and Spot's last encounter: that fateful afternoon he'd learned that Spot Conlon was really a completely different boy named Benjamin. That day, Spot had become human to Racetrack: somehow the King had become a mere mortal like the rest of them. And now, Race began to wonder things like where Spot had grown up, and why he'd become a newsie to begin with. He subconsciously imagined the red-haired Irish woman who would name her son Benjamin and tie a tiny silver key 'round his neck.

This in and of itself seemed a disturbing new development for Racetrack: Spot Conlon was indeed some mother's son. Now, Race wasn't stupid. He knew where babies came from. Obviously Spot had a mother. But somehow it was completely different to think of Spot assomeone's _son._ His having a real name: Benjamin, suggested that Spot had been loved by a mother and that maybe, just maybe, he might actually have loved that mother of his back. Perhaps Spot Conlon hadn't been cold and heartless since birth after all, as the rumors so often suggested.

"Race!"

Damn Jack and his interrupting people's thoughts like that …

"What do you'se want Cowboy?"

"Ya look awful – why ain't ya sellin'?"

"I'se got uddah things on me mind. But thanks fah da lookin' awful bit, dat really brightened me day." Race cracked a half a grin.

Jack smiled back, glad that Race wasn't truly offended. "Ya bum – ya know what I meant!"

Race nodded halfheartedly, still grinning, staring at the ground.

"So, do you'se wanna talk … ?"

Race's grin dulled slightly. He must _really _look awful: Jack's voice was full of genuine concern.

"Don't go gettin' all sensahtive jus' fah me, Cowboy," Racetrack teased, trying to lighten the situation as best he could.

Jack frowned. "Fine fine," he sighed. "Joke about it Race, but I'se was serious. If ya need anythin', ya know where tah find me."

Race let Jack walk away, hoping he hadn't hurt his friend too bad. But truly, Race was not the talking type, he was the listening type. That was, after all, what had gotten him into this mess to begin with.

Not that it was a "mess" per say, butthe whole thingwas certainly affecting him in a less-than-desirable manner. He went back to wondering about the human side of Spot. He wondered about Benjamin's childhood again; and whether or not Benjamin might still be inside Spot somewhere, or if he'd disappeared completely the night Spot had killed another king - another boy - to win Brooklyn. Race decided that this Benjamin was someone he wanted to get to know.

Just then, several more New Yorkers passed him by, possibly never even having seen him at all, and Race lost more business. He had to somehow get over his interest in Spot … _and_ his obsession with Benjamin.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Newsies. Damn.

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Chapter three! Written during school again. I am not very happy with this chapter, but I figured something had to be posted so I could continue with it, or it would never get done. Again, thanks to everyone who is reading and commenting, you're awesome, please continue to do so. Oo, also, I hope you've caught on to the fact that "Benjamin" is indeed the personification of Spot's innocence, as well as his goodness- I tried to make that a little more clear in this chapter. No, Spot does not have multiple personalities lol, it's just an idea I'm trying out, it will probably continue throughout the story. _

A little over a month since the late August heat had blessed the newsies with good business, autumn was beginning to show subtle signs of its coming. The days were still relatively warm, but the nights had a bite to them. The leaves were changing to pale browns and golds, soon to be deep reds and oranges in another week or so, and geese could be heard making their way south for the bitter winter ahead.

For Spot, the month had been agonizing. Racetrack hadn't been to Brooklyn since the day he had told him his real name. Race used to come to Brooklyn all the time, for one reason or another. Those visits had ceased; and Spot wasn't sure if this upset him because of the humiliation he felt at having told Race his secrets, or simply because he missed having the Manhattan boy around. He didn't know what to think, he didn't know where he and Race stood, but he _knew_ he wasn't going to be the pitiful fool who went to Race first to figure these things out.

For Race, the month had been tiresome. He could function during the days now, and once again had no trouble selling his papes. But it was at night that he would get less than half the sleep he needed: lying awake and dreaming of Benjamin Conlon. He had created just under a million different stories to accompany that name. In some, Benjamin had grown up with a large Irish family of some eight brothers and sisters; in others, his father had left when he was just a boy and Benjamin and Mrs. Conlon had lived a hard life in the tougher part of Brooklyn. The stories always ended abruptly, however, right before the transition from Benjamin to Spot, and Race was never allowed to bear witness to the loss of innocence that made Spot the callous individual he was today.

It was a Sunday afternoonwhen Race finally decided, putting his fear (and probably his common sense) out of mind, to take the long walk to Brooklyn. He couldn't understand why it was so hard. A name is a name, right? Everyone has one, even Spot, so why had it caused this much discomfort between them? Racetrack lost count of how many times he'd tried to turn around to head back home and had to gather his courage all over again to continue on his way to Brooklyn. When he finally did arrive (in twice the amount of time the trip would normally have taken him), he found Spot sitting on the docks, one leg lazily swinging over the edge, a few inches above the gray water. Spot didn't notice him at first.

It suddenly occurred to Race that he didn't know whether to call him Spot or Benjamin …

"Uhm, Spot?" It seemed like the right choice after half a second's indecision.

Spot jumped at the sound, and then was up and walking away briskly before Race could say another word, waving his hands and shaking his head going "Oh no, we ain't gonna do dis – go home Race …"

Race was shocked for a minute, then realized that after all his internal conflict and lack of sleep, Spot was just walking away. "Wait, Spot, get back here, we'se need tah talk."

Spot didn't respond.

"'Dis ain't a joke, Spot. Ya went an' told me all about yaself, and all dis stuff ya ain't nevah told no one, and den all of a sudden ya won't talk tah me at all?"

Race was following Spot now, yet still Spot would neither speak nor turn around.

"Benjamin!" Race tried in desperation.

Spot stopped dead in his tracks, and so abruptly that Race ran right into him and tumbled to the ground. Looking up, Race grinned slightly - he couldn't help knowing that he'd gotten the better of Spot. "I thought dat'd get ya tah stop," he chuckled.

Spot thought it was a little less than funny.

He spun around, and with deadly speed grabbed Race by the scruff of the neck and shoved the Italian up against the nearest wall. The brick was warm from the bright afternoon sun, but still rock hard and already Race could feel the pain shooting through his back.

"What da hell are you'se doin' Spot!" he yelled: his toes dangling inches off the ground.

Spot looked more intimidating than Race had ever seen him. As a look he'd been practicing for years, it was quite effective.

"Don't you'se evah - _evah _- call me dat name again. I ain't Benjamin no more: I ain't been Benjamin fah years, and I ain't nevah gonna be Benjamin again!"

"Lemme down Spot!" Race yelled. But Spot kept right on in his fury; Race had never seen him this angry before.

"I dunno why I'se told you'se all dat stuff - I nevah should have. I wasn't meself dat day. Jus' fahget da whole thing, alright? It don't mean nuttin'," he growled.

Race couldn't think of what to say. He wouldn't go home now, not after he'd lost an entire month of sleep thinking of Spot and Benjamin ... "Fine fine, jus' lemme go Spot," he said.

Spot's face went from fury to confusion, rested for a moment at skepticism, then fell completely. He then let go of Race, who fell also.

This was it, Race realized then, it was now or never ... he got to his feet slowly and dusted himself off, doing his best to look defeated. He waited only seconds for Spot to adopt the smug look of success, before throwing the punch. Even as Race's fist connected with Spot's jaw, the Manhattan boy knew he was as good as dead. Spot retaliated almost immediately. Even as Race somehow, miraculously, wrestled Spot to the ground, he had no idea how this was going to solve his problems. Spot kicked and yelled, but Race had had the element of surprise, and was soon holding Spot's wrists in place on the ground, straddling the Brooklynite so that he could not move. And even as Race looked down into Spot's face, he wasn't sure of his next move. For the next move, in fact, was Spot's.

"Higgins!" he growled incredulously, "Ya gonna be sorry fah dis - what are you'se doin'?"

"I jus' wanna know why you'se told me ya name like ya did. I wanna know who Benjamin is - an' yer makin' it real damn hard fah me," Race answered honestly.

Spot relaxed under Racetrack's grip, and his face became less tense. Race's eyes were doing that thing again. They were becoming soft and inviting, and Spot realized with a jolt that he actually hadn't minded when Race had called him Benjamin. Spot wanted to explain this and everything else to Race, but his pride was screaming that doing so would be being weak, and giving in. Kings weren't weak: kings didn't need brown-eyed Italian boys to talk to to make them feel better. Kings didn't. Maybe Spot did.

"Alright, alright!" Spot rolled his eyes, "I give." He was a little concerned that he'd never seen Racetrack be serious about anything in his whole life, yet here he was: genuine concern in his voice and worry in his eyes. In fact, Spot almost felt proud that he and he alone had this effect on his friend. He smiled inwardly: it was another boost to his already over-inflated ego.

"Ya swear?" Race asked, wary of having the same trick pulled on him that he'd pulled on Spot only moments ago.

"A 'course I swear, ya bum, now get offa me or I'll kill ya!"

Race didn't need to be told twice.

Both boys sat up on their knees, panting a little from their fight. Neither knew exactly what to say. Finally Spot started grinning. Race grabbed a handfull of dirt and threw it at him: "What's so funny!" he demanded.

"I'se really got tah ya, huh?" he asked proudly.

Race laughed along with Spot, but felt slightly ashamed. "Ah, don't flattah yaself ..."

They sat in another uncomfortable silence before Race asked, "So you'se wanna head tah Tibby's or something?" he was just glad that they were speaking again.

Spot shook his head, "Nah, if we'se gonna talk, we ain't gonna do it wid a bunch a' uddah people around ..."

Spot seemed uncomfortable, so Race humored him. "Alright, Spot, so where do you'se wanna go?"

Spot thought for a moment, and the effort screwed up his whole face. "Let's jus' take a walk." Though the idea was his own, Spot sounded rather uncomfortable with it, as if he'd never done so before.

But Race was more than happy with the idea. He nodded. Then slightly awkwardly, the two began their trek through the streets of New York: an event which would become commonplace for them in the months to come. Walking through Central Park an hour or so later, the leaves looked gorgeous in the golden setting of the sun. Spot watched them in awe, quite aware that he hadn't taken the time to notice such things in months. The light breeze ruffled both boys' hair, and even after the sun had gone down and the rest of the world had tucked themselves in bed, Spot and Racetrack wandered the streets, together. This togetherness would also become commonplace quite soon.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** I don't own newsies; never have, never will. I do, however, own Kathleen and Benjamin Conlon (Sr.)

_**Author's Notes:** This chapter starts a little differently. I decided to begin with a kind of flash back so I didn't have to tell the whole story of Spot's past using dialogue, because that would have taken an obnoxiously long time lol. I finally am secure with where I'm taking this story though. I now have the whole thing in my head, roughly, so yay for that. Again, thank you to anyone reviewing my stories. Special thanks to Rustie, and your help with my accents – I tried to employ them best I could this time around, lol, but old habits die hard._

_Oo, I also am asking the help of anyone who thinks they could teach me how to type an Irish accent. I have yet to attempt it, and I think I might want to bring it into later chapters with a character I'm going to introduce. So if you know how, please let me know. Thanks a lot_

_Kathleen was fresh off the boat from Ireland when she met her husband-to-be. Barely 18, she was trying to escape the life of tragedy she'd known since childhood back home. Her mother hadpassed awaywhen she was just a little girl, and her father had recently died of disease in a local jail (imprisoned for his inability to pay the families' landlord.) The young redhead found herself wandering the dank streets of New York soon thereafter, quite aware that she herself had no way to pay for food or board. Sofollowinga night or two of hunger, it came to pass that the virtuous Kathleen Doyle found herself dancing in night clubs and plucking chickens in factories to pay the rent. But she would not give up. She had always been, and always would be, a fiery, determined woman – quick of wit and wild, sharp tongued and spontaneous. _

_Benjamin was New York born and raised, though also of Irish decent, and significantly more level-headed than Kathleen. His own parents were devout Irish Catholics who had also grown up in America – though they preferred a quiet life in the country, to the bustle of the city that their son had chosen. Benjamin was currently working for a lawyer, making a decent living for himself. The young man was soft spoken, but intelligent; shy, but cunning. The night his employer and a few other coworkers decided to take a Friday off and check out the nightlife, was the night Benjamin Conlon saw his wife for the first time.Kathleen was beautiful – the star of the show, and the young man fell head over heels. After the show he approached her. He told her he'd watched her all night, and was convinced he was in love. He draped his coat over her bare shoulders and left her with an address where she could find him, should she wish to see him again. Benjamin Conlon Sr. was a firm believer in fate, and he had faith that Kathleen would find him, and all would be well. _

_Sure enough, within a week Kathleen wandered her way to his doorstep. Within a month they were living together, and within that very year the two were wed (much to the dismay of Benjamin's parents, who strongly disapproved of Kathleen.) It was a perfect marriage, filled with such love many people will never experience. And a year later, when Benjamin Conlon Jr. – Spot – was born, they became a perfect family. Once, Benjamin Jr. even met his grandparents. They were kind to his face, but told his father never to bring the product of his and Kathleen's sin to their home again. Outside of his grandparents' disapproval, however, the family lived a good life. Benjamin Sr. became a lawyer himself and could give his wife and son the best of everything; Kathleen never danced for tips again in her life. _

_Spot lived the life of the privileged. _

_They lived seven years thus. Then, on his eighth birthday, while Benjamin Jr. was staying the night at a friends' house, a fire destroyed the Conlon home. Benjamin Sr. and Kathleen were trapped inside: the Conlon son never saw his parents again. He used to wonder why it was that both his parents had died that night, yet he had lived ... for what purpose?_

_For a few years Spot was passed from orphanage to orphanage, from foster home to foster home. No one he ever stayed with treated him well. He was harassed and abused, until finally he left and made his own life on the street… Becoming the King of Brooklyn, and possibly the most feared newsie to ever walk the streets of New York ..._

That same newsie now walked alongside Racetrack in the chilly night air. Upon hearing the story of Spot's roots, Race couldn't think what to say. "I'm sorry," he mumbled lamely.

Spot sighed. He had given up trying to resist Race – the Manhattaner was hell bent on discovering the truth, and Spot had found through the course of their talk that truly he appreciated Race's concern.

"So …" Race continued. "Why don't ya let nobody call ya Benjamin, or even let dem know dat's ya real name?"

Spot let out a soft chuckle. He looked up from the street and his eyes laughed at Race as he gave his friend a small push. "Ya don't let me fahget nuttin', do ya Race?"

Race grinned back.

"Dis is gonna sound real dumb," Spot said softly, shaking his head.

Race put a hand on his shoulder. He didn't know what was causing this newfound sympathy in himself, but it seemed to work best on Spot when he was kind, and honest. So after only a moment's hesitation, he confessed "You ain't nevah said anythin' stupid in ya life – whatevah ya about tah say now can't be dat bad."

Spot looked unsure for a moment; but an eyebrows-raised, encouraging grin from Racetrack got him talking again.

"All dose people in da fostah homes, dey all called me Benjamin, yelled at me Benjamin, till I couldn't even remembah me own parents evah callin' me my name," Spot explained,"An' I hated dat I couldn't remembah. So I decided tah change me name, an' no one was evah gonna call me Benjamin again … till it was someone dat loved me …"

The last bit was almost lost in his mumbling, but Racetrack just caught it. It stunned him.

"So why'd ya tell me, Spot?"

Spot sighed heavily. "I dunno dat part, Race. I just did. I nevah planned to, and lookin' back, I can't think of a reason why. It just happened dat way."

Race nodded.

They walked for a little while longer in silence. Race had all the information he'd wanted. So why was he lingering? He couldn't tell. He decided it was best not to push his luck. "Well, I'se should be headin' back tah da Lodgin' house. I'll see ya latah Spot?"

Spot nodded, punching Race heartily in the shoulder and laughing. "A' course."

Race smiled back, and turned to leave.

"Heya ...Race?" Spot called suddenly.

Racetrack turned around in surprise.

"Thanks fah talkin' tah me. I'se appreciate it …"

Racetrack's smile was wide. It was good to hear Spot expressing sentiments that Race himself shared. "Don' worry about it none, Spot."

The two turned at the same time and wandered their separate ways. Both smiling the same silly smile. Both completely unaware of what they were getting themselves into.


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies. Sadness. I do own Spike, and Mouse, and Maria however, and you will see them again.

**_Author's Notes:_** _So now that I have got the rest of the story mapped out in my head, it'll be much easier to get them up on the site. I write them during school while I'm not paying attention and then come home and type them and voila. So that's exciting. Not much else to say. I actually like this chapter, which you know doesn't happen often. But please give me your feedback, as always. Thanks._

Spot had his own room. He was the King, and when you're King, you get your own room – it's just the way things work. It wasn't, however, necessarily the nicest room. It was usually dirty and dank smelling, like the river below. And there was a lose floorboard. This floorboard was right in the center of the room, and would squeak rather irritatingly every time it was stepped on.

Currently, the Brooklyn boys were downstairs trying to play a nice game of cards, while from above, intermixed with the sounds of the storm outside, they heard: _step step step SQUEAK step step step step SQUEAK step step SQUEAK step step step step SQUEAK step step –_

"God damnnit!" a rather hot tempered Brooklynite named Spike cursed. "If he don't stop pacin' – I swear I'se gonna _kill _him!"

The other boys snickered a little at Spike's outburst, but nodded in agreement. It was common knowledge that when there was something on Spot's mind, he would spend hours walking back and forth in his room, thinking and mumbling to himself. But he had been in there _all_ _day_, and the other boys were starting to get a little concerned … as well as annoyed. "What da _hell_ could it be dis time?" Spike rolled his eyes.

A slightly quieter Brooklynite, Mouse, said "Don't let it bothah ya, Spike. Just ignore it and soon ya won't even notice it no more." Spike nodded reluctantly through gritted teeth, and the boys resumed their game.

… _Step step step SQUEAK step step step step SQUEAK step step SQUEAK step step step SQUEAK …_

"When exactly ain't I gonna notice it, Mouse!" Spike yelled suddenly, and Mouse recoiled at the anger directed at him.

It was clear that the boys would have to find something else to do to distract themselves from the infuriating squeaking, because cards was _not_ working ….

Spot hardly noticed the squeaking. He was far too deeply immersed in his own thoughts. He kept seeing Racetrack's face. And that scared the _shit_ out of him.

"It ain't nuttin'," Spot would mutter. "He's just easy tah tawk to, dat's it, nuttin' more …"

But there it was again, every time Spot closed his eyes: the picture of Race smiling at him saying _"Don' worry about it none, Spot" … _God, that smile was driving him mad. The way the hair was tossed back, the way the cheeks were pale and soft, the way the eyes positively _glowed_.

There was a knock at the door. Spot cursed, but Maria entered anyway...

Now, most every girl in Brooklyn, nay, in all of New York wanted Spot. He was handsome and charming, and he _was_ a king after all … the power tended to be enticing to females. Spot knew it, and he had always used it against them. The result effect being that Spot could get any girl he wanted. But Maria – she was another story. She was Spot's female counterpart. She was a dancer, and every newsie in the whole city knew of her – there wasn't a boy anywhere that wouldn't give their right arm to spend just one night with the Latina.

Spot had been infatuated with Maria for a while. He had actually expended some effort to win Maria over (this was foreign to Spot, who usually just let the girls come to him). They had seen each other for a good month, and then had mutually broken off the relationship. But Maria stuck around, for whenever either of the two was feeling a little lonely. She came by now and again for some late-night comfort, and Spot was always more than willing to oblige her …

Here she stood now, dark black hair cascading down her back, almond eyes hidden beneath long, dark,eyelashes.Yet at the moment, Spot had absolutely no desire to see his former lover. "What're you doin' here, Maria?"

Maria pouted her full lips. "Aw, Spot, baby, why don't you ever wanna love me anymore?"

"Just not tonight."

"Why not?" Maria cooed. She walked seductively over to where Spot was standing, careful to close the door behind her, and draped her hands over Spot's shoulders, pulling him close. "Isn't there anything I could do to make it better?"

Spot rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Maria – don't you'se undahstand da meanin' of da woid _no_?"

Maria began to plant teasing little kisses all around the place where Spot's neck became his shoulder, completely ignoring his disinterest.

Spot pushed her away and held her stiffly at arm's length. "I said _no_," he said firmly. "I ain't in da mood, got it?"

Maria looked quite hurt, but knew better than to argue with Spot when he gave her that look. "Fine!" she yelled, and gave Spot a little push before huffing her way down the stairs.

Spot rolled his eyes again and slammed the door behind her. He inwardly cursed himself. It was unusual for Spot to ever send any girl away. He generally didn't even have to be interested in the girl to sleep with her. It was just what he did – it was his image. So why had he turned Maria down? He couldn't quite figure it out. But something in his subconscious had wanted nothing to do with her. Nothing about her was appealing to him anymore. _Great_, he thought to himself, _I'm already bored with the most gorgeous girl in all of New York City – where do I go from there?_

He paced some more – much to the dismay of his boys downstairs - now with yet another mystery to discern. And then suddenly, the pacing stopped, and there was quiet. He had figured it out, even if he wasn't exactly happy with what he discovered. Why had he turned Maria down? Because her eyes didn't glow. Not like Racetrack's did.

"Fuck."

Not even bothering to grab a coat or his cap, Spot started down the stairs. On his way out he passed Maria sitting in Spike's lap (clearly not _too_ hurt by Spot's rejection).

"Going somewhere baby?" she smiled at him tauntingly.

"Ovah tah Manhattan fah a while. Spike – you'se in charge, got dat?"

And without even waiting for an answer, he was out the door into the pouring rain.

In Manhattan, the boys were enjoying a night just sitting around the Lodging House. The storm had kept them in most of the night, but Race was in no mood to just sit inside. He wanted to go out and paint the town. So they'd opened a few bottles of liquor they'd been saving to oblige him. Now the Italian was slightly buzzed, but still hell bent on getting out.

"C'mon guys," he whined. "Let's go _do_ somethin'."

Mush laughed, "What're you in such a good mood for?"

Race grinned, "I dunno, Mushee, I just can't stay in tahnight."

Suddenly a shoe flew from out of nowhere and caught Racetrack square on the side of the head. Race tumbled off the table he'd been standing on, right to the floor. Several of the boys nearly died laughing, but Race stood right back up, fists raised, yelling, "Alright, who did it! I'll soak ya!"

This caused the boys to laugh even harder. Then Blink stood with his hands raised in mock surrender: "I can't tell no lies, Race, it was me," he snickered and winked to the others.

"Ya can't tell lies?" Race laughed, "Blink, I'se nevah hoid ya tell da truth a day in ya _life_!"

Blink laughed and gave Race a playful shove, Race retaliated with a good natured slap on the back. Soon the two were wrestling on the ground.

Jack came to interrupt. "Hey, you two," he laughed, "I can't have ya wakin' up da youngah boys wid ya flirtin'."

Several "ooo's" and "awww's" escaped the surrounding crowd. Blink shook his head and made a gagging gesture, and left Race for Mush, who was sitting all by himself with a hurt look on his face.

Race rolled over onto his side and rubbed the patch of ground next to him seductively, "If you'se wanted tah join us, Jack, all ya had tah do was say so," he batted his eyelashes jokingly.

Jack made a face of disgust and shook his head, but Race sprung from the floor andcontinuedin his previous mission:"Let's go tah Tibby's or somethin' Jack – it's such a nice night, I can't stay home, c'mon, let's go," he pleaded.

Jack shook his head and sighed, "Aw, Race, we'se all jus' wanna stay home tahnight."

But Race was in far too good a mood. He and Spot were back on good terms, better terms than they'd ever been on, even. He was surrounded by friends, and he was the center of attention, which was just the way he liked it. This was his time.

Race pouted his lips, and slyly took both Jack's hands and began twirling him around. Jack was too shocked to protest, while Race sang "La da dee, dum dum dee, la da, dum dum, dee dum dum …" a simple tune for them to dance to. Then he faked a woman's high pitched voice, "Ya nevah take me out no more Jack – I wanna go _dancin'_!"

The other boys were rolling by this point. Seeing their leader, the fearless Jack Kelly being swept off his feet by Race (a good six inches shorter than Jack was) was too good to be true. Jack just rolled his eyes and played along. The laughing seemed to give Race even more energy. He continued spiritedly, mocking. "I feel like I'm in a cage, Jack, I need more of a life den dis – stayin' home all day, cookin' ya meals and cleanin' ya doity undahwear-"

There was uproar. Even Jack, who was used to Race's drunken joking, couldn't contain his laughter. He almost fell over, eyes watering, sides aching, laughing so hard. Drunk Race kept right on dancing with himself.

Jack put one hand up in defeat (the other was still clutching his aching gut). "Ya win," he gasped, "Ya promise me ya won't _evah_ say anuddah woid about me undahwear an' I'll take ya anywhere ya want!"

Race smiled, laughing just as hard as the rest of them. He gave a little mock bow, and from somewhere in the crowd came, "Dat's one fine woman ya got yaself, Cowboy!

Nearly an hour later a small group of close-knit Manhattaners were sitting around in Tibby's, smoking and talking as old friends do.

Racetrack was glowing – the life of the party. He told stories that kept the others on the edge of their seats;delivered jokes that made the others cry tears of mirth; and was the all around definition of fun. The last couple weeks, the othershad been worried about Racetrack – he hadn't been acting like himself, but now, they knew, it had just been a phase. This was the Racetrack they knew and loved.

Currently the Italian was in the middle of some type of jig on a tabletop, when the door to the pub flew open. Those sitting near the door were sprayed with rainwater from the storm outside. A collective gasp came from all corners of the room at once.

Spot's hair was dripping wet and his clothes were clinging tightly to his shivering form. Race stopped his dance at once, and at the sight of Spot there, tall and dark in the moonlight, his breath caught in his chest. He felt the heat rise to his face and subconsciously scolded himself for it. No one spoke.

Finally, when it was clear that Spot was not going to say anything, Jack stood up, "Spot," he asked, "What're you doin' here?" Simple, but to the point.

Spot shook his head to shake the excess rain from his hair, and began walking towards Race. "Jacky boy, I need tah tawk tah Race fah a minute. Ya won't mind if I borrow him, will ya?"

Race smiled a little. Spot was here to see him …

The other boys whispered uncomfortably. What could possibly be so important that Spot would walk all the way from Brooklyn, late at night, in the middle of a storm?

Race jumped down from the table, quite aware of the uneasy atmosphere of the pub. "Heya fellahs, no worries, I'll be back. Try not tah miss metoo much."

Race tried not to notice the wide smile that spread over Spot's face when he'd spoke.

And without another word, the two boys walked out of Tibby's, leaving the others stunned and quite confused. Something was clearly going on, and it was a secret.


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Newsies. You know this. Why do I bother?

_**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry this took so long! Midterms and all that fun stuff. Anyhow, I hope you haven't lost interest – I plan to continue this story all the way through, just bear with me lol. I like this chapter, I hope you do as well. As always, review, please please please! It helps me so much, it really does. Oh, and Merry Christmas! _

The rain was coming down in sheets. It pounded on the roof of Tibby's, and spilled over the gutters in a dirty waterfall that Race found somehow tantalizing. He stood there with Spot under an overhang, both trying their best to pretend that this wasn't the most uncomfortable situation either of them had ever been in. All of a sudden, a shiver flew down Race's spine – he was soaked up to the knees, and like Spot, his clothes were quite soggy. "Spot," he asked hesitantly, "it's freezin' – what're ya doin' here?"

Spot stood there, unspeaking, and Race silently noted how awful he looked. And yet … how wonderful.Yet Spot was still torn inside. His stomach was doing somersaults standing here with Racetrack, and the speech he'd been working on the whole wayover now sounded stupid. But that feeling he'd gotten on that blazing August day when he'd first shared with Race his secrets – he got that feeling now whenever he and Race were together. And it was getting worse … or was it better? Whatever the case, it was this very feeling, that made him sure what he was doing was right. This feeling, the one making his palms sweat, and his heart pound up in his throat. Yet could he really be falling for Racetrack Higgins? The thought was absurd … But that feeling, he couldn't get rid of it … It was crazy, Race was a nobody, Spot was a king … Oh, but his eyes, those big, brown, caring eyes …

"Spot?"

Spot's eyes shot back up, and his mind raced back to the present. Suddenly there was Racetrack, standing only inches away, and God, did he look _good_ …

"Why'd ya do it Race?" Spot demanded, but the crack in his voice gave away his anxiety.

Race smiled a little, drunk and confused. "Do what?" He raised his hands, palms up, to show his bewilderment.

Spot sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Ya can't just make dis easy, can ya Higgins?" he asked, exasperated. But Race saw that a slight blush was creeping its way to Spot's cheeks.

Finally Spot closed his eyes for a second, mentally preparing himself. He then looked directly at Race. "Make it so's I can't stop thinkin' about ya."

Race shook his head, clearly unaware of what was going on. "I didn't do nuttin' Spot – are you okay?"

_Just my luck dat the bastard'd be drunk ..._Spot thought to himself. He made fists and yelled, "Ahh! No, I ain't okay!"

Race took a step back, while Spot pointed an accusing finger in his direction. "All I'se can do is think about ya – and ya eyes, dey're what's doin' it!" This certainly wasn't going the way Spot had planned. Maybe yelling didn't exactly convey "I care about you." Looking at Race's confused face, Spot shook his head. _Okay, new plan._

"Race, what I'se tryin' tah say is dat, well, bein' around ya, it makes me … well …it makes me ..." Spot's blush was deeper than ever now, he couldn't even look Racetrack in the face.

Race laughed. "Jesus Spot, jus' say whatevah it is, ya makin' such a big deal outta it."

Spot clenched his teeth in a futile attempt to make his urge to punch Race subside. "Makes me wanna kiss ya, ya dimwitted sonuva bitch!"

Race stood, quite dumbfounded for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what Spot had said under all the cursing. Finally his intoxicated brain registered this one thought: _So dis is why Spot's been actin' so funny … huh, I guess it sorta makes sense now …_

After his revelation however, he looked back to Spot. The Brooklynite was staring at him with an intense, almost terrified fervor. Droplets of rain were sliding their way down Spot's pale face and over his parted lips, between which short breaths of warm air were visible in the chill.

Racetrack looked shocked, afraid, and utterly confused all at the same moment. But Spot would not give in. He had come here to get something accomplished, and by all means, he would do so. It was that part of him that he got from his mother. He was determined. You see, Spot Conlon always got what he wanted, even if he had to force his hand.

And at that particular moment, what he wanted was Racetrack Higgins.

Without giving himself time to lose his nerve, Spot reached out and grabbed Race by the collar. "Damn," he mumbled, and closed his eyes as tight as he could. Then, in a jerky, nervous-type movement, Spot threw the drunken Italian against the wall, and pressed their lips together.

All around them, the rain poured as hard as ever. The sounds of the city pounded in their ears. The air was freezing cold. And they were still just two poor orphans inthe midst of a lifelong battle against the world. Yet, for just a moment, Anthony Racetrack Higgins and Benjamin Spot Conlon, were in heaven. Their stomachs still ached from hunger, and at the back of their minds, thoughts of how they'd pay rent that night still lingered. Yet, for just a moment, the two boys tasted freedom and innocence.

The cruel world still spun around them. Yet, for just a moment, they knew happiness.

For Spot, the kiss meant a magnificent release of all the tension and uncertainty he'd allowed to build up inside himself. For Race, the kiss was just a soft, warm something that came unexpected, but not all together unwelcome.

And both were too busy to notice the ragged-looking figure around the corner let out an inaudible gasp and sprint its way down the street back to Brooklyn.

Silently, and just as quickly as he'd begun it, Spot ended the kiss. Race waited for Spot to say something, anything … but Brooklyn's king only stared at his shoes. Finally, he looked up to meet Race's gaze. Yet still he didn't speak – he only stared intently, as if fitting pieces into a puzzle. Race was finally about to say _something_, when Spot nodded, quite suddenly, grinned warmly (to himself, not to Race), and turned and ran. He left Racetrack standing there under the dirty roof – his shoes wet and muddy, and with damp handprints on his vest where Spot had grabbed him and pulled him close. Gingerly, the Italian ran a few fingers over his lips. They were still tingling from Spot's touch.

And then the rain was silent. The whole _city_ was silent. All that Race could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. _Are hearts supposed to beat that fast? Damn …_

Racetrack stumbled back into Tibby's: still wet, still cold, still drunk … but there was something very different. Race knew, he could feel it, he was changed – maybe when he'd sobered up he'd be able to figure it out …

A few boys looked up when Race reentered, but he didn't notice. He just took his seat, and put his head down. He chuckled when he realized he'd be spending another night lying in bed and staring at the ceiling…

_A/N: See the nice purple review button. Yeah, you should press it. If you managed to suffer through this much of my writing the least you can do is give me a little feedback …_


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Newsies. As long as it's taken me to update, I figure you might have forgotten, so I thought I'd remind you.

_**Author's Notes**: I am so sorry it__took me so long. I simply couldn't find inspiration. Even this chapter is not the greatest, but you really get a feel for what the rest of the story will be like, finally, from this chapter. I hope you haven't given up on me; I can't afford to lose any of my wonderful reviewers, lol. Anyhow, I realize that this chapter is a bit of a downer, but I can promise that the next one (whenever I get around to writing it) will be the exact opposite. I don't think I could bear to hurt Spot anymore. Also, I wrote this chapter a little different than my usual style. It's longer and there is alot of choppy action going on, going from one scene to another quickly, tell me if you don't like it, and I'll change it. So please read and review if you're still here – thanks for sticking with me. _

"He ain't nevah around," Spike accused. The surrounding boys nodded.

"An' when he is around, his head's always somewhere else. Can't get a straight ansah outta him tah save ya life," another Brooklynite chimed in, while Mouse gave a nervous cough from the corner.

Outside, the sun was shinning, the clouds drifting lazily by. It was a nice day, to be sure. The Brooklyn boys were not selling, however. Spike had decided that enough was enough, and called together a meeting instead, to discuss their leaders' behavior of late.

"I dunno about da rest a' you'se guys, but I had enough, an' I don't intend tah be stickin' around tah take much more a dis."

Spot had gotten up good and early that morning, leaving before even the sun had risen. He was on his way to Manhattan in light of recent events.

Mouse was cowering in a corner, quite afraid to speak up, while the other boys slandered their chosen king. In his mind, a silent battle raged. He knew where Spot had been going all these nights; he knew why Spot couldn't think straight during the day. He had seen them together, only last night. He had watched Spot drag the other boy from the pub, watched the two of them talk in whispers, and watched as they had kissed there under the stars. Mouse had seen them with his own eyes.

He could speak up now, and tell the boys the truth – after all, they were like his brothers. Or he could keep it to himself, and protect Spot. He couldn't decide – he didn't want to lie to his fellow newsies, they had a right to know … but he knew that if they knew, it would be the end of Spot. No king of Brooklyn would be with another boy. It was unheard of.

"What do you think, Mouse?" Spike directed all attention to the youngest member of their group. Mouse began stuttering immediately – feeling like a thousand burning hot spotlights had suddenly turned towards him. His cheeks blushed accordingly.

"Well – I – I dunno, Spike … I mean, well Spot's a good – ya know, he ain't nevah, well, I mean – "

"Mouse!" Spike yelled, "What da hell are ya tryin' tah say?"

Mouse coughed and then said as quietly as he possibly could: "He goes tah Manhattan tah see a boy."

But Spike heard him. _"What?" _he hissed.

Mouse felt like he could cry. "Ya hoid me!" he yelled, and ran out of the room. He couldn't stand to be there while the others planned the downfall of the best leader Brooklyn had ever known.

"So Conlon's a queer …" Spike nodded maliciously. The other boys looked around at each other uncertainly. And in that room, on that sunny afternoon, Spot Conlon's fate was sealed...

The trek to Manhattan wasn't a fun one. It took, on average, about an hour.

On a good day, one could make it there in about 45 minutes, and even that was at a breakneck pace. That morning, Spot made it in no more than half an hour. The blood was pounding in his ears the whole way, his hands were shaking, and he was sweating like mad. But he knew what he needed to do. He knew now how he felt about Race, and he knew also that somewhere deep down, Race felt the same about him. He didn't know quite how he knew, but it was there, as natural as if he'd been born with it. This heated need to be close to the one person he felt he could trust.

Central Park. That's where Spot knew Race often sold, so that is where he waited until the sun came up.

Racetrack, meanwhile, was waking up to the worst hangover he'd had since the days of the strike. He felt like someone was drilling a three inch spike into his left temple. "Ah, shit," he mumbled as he rolled out of bed, resting his head on the cold wood of the floor. He couldn't seem to move. And worst of all, he seemed to have a vague memory of he and Spot in an alley last night … But no, that was ridiculous – why would Spot even be in Manhattan last night, and why would he … No, probably just an alcohol-induced dream. Albeit a good dream …

"Higgins, get ya ass up," Itey said sympathetically as he passed Race on the floor.

Racetrack rolled over and let out a moan. Gingerly, he got to his feet and approached the mirror. There, on his vest from last night … two muddy handprints…

"Heya Jack …"

Spot sat on a cold wooden bench, every once in a while getting up to pace nervously. The sky was streaked now with orange and purple. Birds chirped, and the church bell rang out the early morning hour. The beauty of it all was lost on Spot, however, who was far too nervous for anything to affect him much. Until Racetrack came trekking into his vision that is.

The Italian was clearly hurting from the night before. But Spot still thought he looked wonderful. His olive complexion was complimented by the soft light of dawn. His hair was slicked back as always, and his cap was just slightly askew. Spot shook himself lightly, mentally preparing himself. He knew Race didn't notice him, so it would be up to him to make the first move. And … "Uh, Heya Race."

The look on Race's face when he saw Spot there was unreadable. Spot thought he saw relief and maybe even pleasant surprise, but there was also a hint of "what the hell …" Which was fair, Spot thought to himself, as he _had_ shown up in Manhattan before sunrise, and sat on a park bench for two hours. _I prolly look like hell or worse_, he thought suddenly.

Racetrack could only stare, so Spot continued. "What're ya doin', huh?"

Race raised his brows, "Well Spot, sometimes us newsies, we like tah get up at da break a' dawn an' spend all day breakin' our backs sellin' papes. But only sometimes, an' jus' fah fun."

Spot chuckled, knowing he probably should have expected that … "Well, ya feel like takin' a walk wid me?"

Race shrugged. He figured the day couldn't possibly get any stranger than it already was …

Back in Brooklyn, Spike sat alone out on the docks. He was waiting for Spot to get back from wherever he was. He'd been waiting for hours, and he'd wait as long as it took. After all, he'd waited all these long years just for an opportunity such as this presented itself. He could wait a few more hours. Then it would be his time …

The gulls cried over his thoughts, and the dirty water below him crashed. He had successfully convinced the other Brooklyn boys that something needed to be done, and he had been ready and willing to tell them what that something was. They had nodded and shaken their fists angrily. Abandonment was not taken lightly, and the boys were not going to make any exceptions, even for a king.

Spike grinned to himself. He himself would lead the revolution, and when it was over, he would take the golden tipped cane for himself, take it from Spot's cold, dead hand. It was only a matter of time now …

Spot and Race walked Central Park several times over. Spot pouring his heart out to Race, finally telling him the truth about his own strange behavior, about the night previous, about Benjamin, about theunconditional comfort that he felt in Racetrack's company. And Race listened intently, unsure of how to respond. Then, though it might quite possibly have been the hardest thing Spot ever had to do, he slowly brought his gaze to meet Race's. He was silent. And Race was silent. And the world that spun on around them ceased to exist. That little patch of grass where they stood, their strong bodies, fragile hearts, were floating, rotating somewhere out in space and time, apart from reality. Connected to no one. Nothing. Free and alone. But alone together.

...And then Racetrack chuckled. The Italian was skeptical by nature and untrusting by nurture, and he laughed at the thought of anyone loving him. Yet as soon as the grin broke upon his lips, he knew he was in trouble. Spot's face went from being soft and kind to hard and defensive. "Fahget it,"Spot said immediately. "Jus' go away." Just as quickly as it had all begun, it seemed to be over.

And then it hit Race that Spot was serious. It hit him like a hundred pound weight right at the pit of his stomach. Spot Conlon, the proudest boy he'd ever known, had just let down his guard to tell Race that he cared for him, trusted him, and wanted to have a relationship with him. "Wait, Spot, I-"

But Spot looked absolutely destroyed. "Race, I said go away."

Race reached out, but Spot glared and slapped Race so hard across the face that his own hand stung, and Race nearly lost his balance. Then there was more silence, and the two studied each others faces intently. The emotions that raged there were windows to their very hearts. Confusion. Anger. Hurt. Frustration. Uncertainty. Lust. Trust. Denial. Pain. Fear. Excitement. And want.

Spot had to end the look after only a few seconds. It tore him apart inside to even be near Race anymore. He'd taken a risk, one that he realized now hadn't been worth it. He'd gambled all or nothing, and he'd lost everything.

"Leave me alone. I don't wanna see ya no more."

Racetrack frowned. "Spot, please, can I jus-"

"God _damnit_ Higgins – get da fuck away from me. I don't wanna evah see ya again, doncha get it!"

Race recoiled. "Fine," he near whispered, head hung, walking away.

And still Spot yelled after him. "Dat's right, jus' go! Ya best not evah come near me again, got dat? I'll kill ya, ya bum, I'll fucking kill ya!" And as Race retreated, the yelling became quieter and more for himself than for Racetrack to hear, "Nevah again, I don't nevah wanna see ya sorry face again …" And as soon as Race was far enough gone that he couldn't hear Spot at all, the Brooklynite collapsed onto the ground, and the screams became sobs. "Jus' go, jus' go, ya bum, it ain't fair … it jus' ain't fair."

And Spot, the king of Brooklyn, lay there, knees pulled to his chest, sobbing, utterly defeated. Spot learned that day that a broken heart could hurt worse than all the bruises in the world. Especially cause what he'd lost, he'd never really had. Spot had never really had _anything_. He was broken and alone.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own the Newsies, but I'm working on it, lol.

_**Author's Note:**_ I just couldn't wait to get this chapter up. It's been in my head for so long, and I think it came out just as I would have liked it to. That's all I have to say really, I'll let you read it and decide for yourself – and I will try and get the next chapter up as soon as possible as I kind of end this one with a cliffhanger.

The moon shone bright that night Spot Conlon walked home alone. The clouds were wispy thin and could not protecthim from the glass-sharp shine of the full moon. The walk took Spot hours, as he had to keep stopping to catch his breath. He'd been sobbing so hard since leaving Manhattan that his lungs ached, his eyes burned, and his nose was numb.

Just as he was passing through the Bronx, his body gave up on him. His legs gave out beneath him, and Spot landed hard on hands and knees – the concrete immediately drawing blood. Spot stared at the hard ground beneath him, and realizations of the night flew through his head. The realization of his love confession, the realization of Race's rejection, the realization of the foolishness of it all. He'd thrown caution to the wind, and unlike his father all those years ago, it had not ended well for him. He'd been banking on a miracle – instead, fate dealt him a disaster. Fate decided to destroy him. Feeling his stomach heave, Spot closed his eyes so he would not have to watch himself vomit all over the cement. Bile and tears and blood made their way to the sewers in gross streams of Spot's own personal misery.

How could he have known that day he said to Race "It's Benjamin," that it would lead to all of this? _Fate_, he thought to himself. He hadn't meant to tell Racetrack his secrets; he hadn't meant to feel so safe when he'd looked into those eyes; he hadn't meant to kiss the boy in the pouring rain. He hadn't meant to fall in love. But one thing led to another, and fate, it seemed, had dragged him by the wrists to places he'd never dared go before. And where was he now? Well, the king of Brooklyn was vomiting and crying and bleeding all alone on the cold, cruel streets of New York…

When finally he reached his home on the docks, it was just a few hours from dawn, and Spot could hear the sounds of his boys sleeping soundly. They didn't know he was home. It was the longest night Spot had ever endured, and it wasn't over yet... Spot could not know that in their sleep, his once loyal followers dreamt of his murder. Even in sleep, they were no longer Spot's friends.

Through the musty pre-dawn air, Spot dragged himself up the stairs to his bed. He thought he heard a creaking on the stairs even after he himself had reached the top, but he dismissed the noise as the throbbing of his head. What he needed now was not to worry, but to sleep.

Settling himself under his cold sheets, Spot closed his eyes tight against the world. His pain was unspeakable. Sleep took over in minutes however, taking Spot to that brilliant place of dreams and ignorance; most importantly, that place devoid of anything earthly. No Brooklyn docks haunted his mind; he saw no rain or Tibby's or tears; and certainly no brown eyes. Brown eyes were the worst.

After less than an hour of sleep, in that middle ground between dream and waking, Spot heard the groan of his own door opening ever so slowly. He ignored it, not able to turn his head for sheer, nearly tangible, exhaustion. Still half asleep, Spot chose to ignore also the creeping footsteps, tiptoeing their way to his bedside. Only when the sounds assumed a voice did Spot finally make any move at all.

"…Spot?"

The voice was soft and careful. And it belonged to no Brooklynite. The owner of the soft voice was from Manhattan. A beautiful, brown-eyed, boy from Manhattan. The same that Spot had fallen in love with. And as the voice broke over Spot's ears, the ache he'd felt all night ebbed ever so slightly, despite the way Spot's brain screamed that this was not a good situation to be in. His heart couldn't help itself – Spot was relieved to see Racetrack. In his presence, Spot's heart was not so hard, his mind not so filled with thoughts of power and pain, his very person was bettered by the company of that insignificant other.

Spot summoned the energy to sit up in his bed, leaning his back against the headboard, returning Race's gaze through bloodshot eyes.

Racetrack stood uncomfortably a few feet from the bed. His eyes were not swollen from crying as Spot's were – instead they were traced with concern and remorse. His hands were fumbling nervously behind his back, and his whole body was shaking with apprehension. Yet Spot could only stare back at him through horribly empty eyes.

Without warning, Race marched to Spot's bed and sat down crosslegged facing the Brooklynite, their faces about a foot apart. The two boys sat in silence for at least fifteen minutes more, just gazing at each other. What else could they do?

Just when Spot thought he couldn't take the silence anymore – that again his body would simply break down and he would fall back out of consciousness – Racetrack grasped the front of his shirt, pulling him in close, pausing for only a minute, an inch away, to see the shocked look on Spot's face.

In the kiss, Spot sensed the same searching in Racetrack as he himself had felt only the night previous at Tibby's. And sure enough, when they parted, the same look of resolve was in the brown eyes Spot so adored. "Benjamin," Race corrected himself.

There was a minute where no one quite knew what to say, sitting so close, both so vulnerable. Then Spot chuckled to himself, secretly thanking fate, and leaning his forehead against Race as he said, "Took ya dis long, did it? Jackass."

And where Spot thought Racetrack would smile and all would be well, instead the Italian began to cry, and Spot couldn't think what to do. Race threw himself at Spot, wrapping his arms so tight around the other's neck that Spot could scarcely move. "I'm sorry," Race whimpered.

Spot shook his head, "Race, 'dere ain't nothin' tah be sorry fah – whatcha tawkin' about?"

"I'm so sorry," Race continued, his face buried in that place between Spot's neck and his shoulder. "I didn't nevah mean tah hoit ya … nevah … sorry, I'm sorry …"

Spot sat bewildered, soothingly rubbing Racetrack's back.

Race backed off a few inches, gazing into Spot's eyes with such distress that Spot's own brows creased in worry. Race's heart ached with the pain he'd caused the boy he so cared for – the boy he hadn't been able to get out of his thoughts in months. He was realizing now that all those sleepless nights should have tipped him off; had he paid more attention, he might have recognized that what he'd been feeling was love.

Race brought his finger up to meet Spot's face, tracing slowly eachtrail of a tear, each line of worry; meeting each freckle, each wrinkle; bringing his lips to kiss each lip, each cheek. All the while whispering "I'm sorry … so sorry …"

Spot, likewise, began exploring all the little details of Race. He kept his hands roaming over shoulders, arms, chest - his lips following moments later to any place he thought he'd like to explore with them.

Within moments, clothing was being shed, and the fever of skin on skin made both boys hot with anticipation. They discovered one another that night, leading with eager hands and greedy mouths. Still with Race gasping in between passion and tears "I'm sorry … sorry …"

While the autumn moonlight streamed through dirty glass windowpanes, two boys found themselves overcome with emotion, enwrapped in one another, feeling love for the very first time. And to the surprise of both, their actions did not feel in the least bit awkward or wrong – they seemed perfect. Like the last piece of the puzzle were falling into place, sealing up that empty place in their hearts with something lukewarm and hopeful.

"I'm sorry … so sorry …"

"I love you …"


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Newsies. But I'm working on it. Promise.

**_Author's Note:_** _I know it's been forever! Even worse then last time, and I apologize. But I've been really busy what with graduating and all. Oh, and I couldn't help writing one more chapter of pointless Sprace cuteness before destroying their lives forever, lol. I hope you enjoy it, if you're even still out there. I hope you are. Give me some feedback on this, okay? It will motivate me to get the next chapter up quicker. _

Emotions ran high the following morning in Brooklyn. While Spot and Race lay sleeping like babies, Spike and the others were downstairs in heated argument.

"It's all ya tawked about yestahday," a boy yelled, "Are ya tellin' me ya losin' ya noive?"

Spike grabbed the boy by the collar and, slamming him against the wall, hissed "Didn't ya see who's cap is outside da door? It ain't Spot's, dat's fah shoah, and it ain't none a' ours. It's dat boy's – da one dat used tah come around all da time in da summah. Da short one from Manhattan. Now, ya tellin' me ya want me tah jus' waltz right up dere an' take care a' Spot in front a' him?"

But the boy was relentless, "Kill him too, it'd –"

Spike punched the boy in the stomach before he could continue with his logic, "Well dat's real smart," he yelled as the boy doubled over and fell to the ground, "It's gonna be hard enough jus' gettin' rid a' Spot as it is – ya want me tah get one a' Kelly's boys too? Brooklyn's gonna be weak. Dere ain't no way in hell we gonna take on Manhattan. No, I ain't pissin' off Kelly any more den I hafta."

The boy on the floor groaned his agreement.

New morning sun was flowing through the same dirty windows which had witnessed the boy's professions of love the night previous. They were waiting now to see what would follow the desperate sentiments of two lonely newsboys.

Racetrack was awake already. He lay quite still, wrapped up in stained bed sheets. Spot was still snoring peacefully beside him. The Brooklyn king was surprisingly serene when he slept. Race would have pictured a snoozing mess – limbs all askew, intolerable snoring, drool perhaps. That's how all the Manhattan boys were anyway – Race had come to learn firsthand that Cowboy was not a morning person. But Spot, well, Spot was a different story entirely. He slept curled in a frail little ball, quiet as anything; lips parted only slightly, arms wrapped tight around a lumpy pillow that had taken Race's place some time over the course of the night. His eyes were calm behind closed lids, and his breathing was steady – Race even thought he saw the hint of a smile.

A small sigh escaped Race then. He could hardly believe what had come to pass between Spot and himself. Only a few months after Spot had poured his heart out to Race, here they were, lying side by side;having traversed that final stage of a relationship which follows acquaintance and then friendship. Romance. Though Race didn't know if he could rightfully call it that. They had slept together, but what would that mean now in the light of day? It was true he loved Spot. Months worth of confusion had manifested themselves all in the night previous. Every question answered, every unclear emotion clarified. Every worry calmed, every pain soothed.

Just as these thoughts settled in his brain, he became aware of the fact that Spot was wide awake and staring at him. Race hesitated. He didn't know if he should smile, or frown. To apologize profusely for what they'd done, or hug the boy beside him and confess his feelings. Spot seemed to sense the uncertainty, and he sat up. "Well, ya still here …" he said quietly, "Which is more den I expected."

Race sat up too, his eyebrows creased in apprehension. "If ya want me tah go Spot, just say da woid …"

Spot shook his head. They spent a long time in silence. Race took the time to notice that at least half the time they were together, neither of them were speaking. They were just staring at each other, or the floor, in awkward silence.

Spot was biting his bottom lip. He was well aware of what they had done the night before. But he knew that he himself had gotten swept up in the moment – perhaps the same held true for Race? He knew his feelings were real, but he was worried about Race. So before anything else was said, before the situation progressed any further, he asked,

"Whatcha thinkin', Race?"

Race frowned. "I dunno," he said honestly. "What do you mean?"

"What do ya want?" Spot asked.

Race thought he must have been imagining things. Spot Conlon putting someone else's feelings before his own? Race couldn't be sure, but he didn't think it had ever happened before. The only thing for it was to be as honest as he possibly could be.

"I want you."

Spot felt himself smile. Race smiled in return. And suddenly all the tension was gone. Both boys were laughing as Spot grabbed Race's shirt collar and slammed him down on the mattress. They were kissing and smiling and both were completely content, Spot straddling Race in the middle of the mess of blankets around them. Race broke apart after a few minutes and looked Spot square in the eye.

Spot raised an eyebrow, but Race continued. "Didja mean whatcha said last night?" he asked.

Spot smiled impishly. "If ya give me sex like dat every time, Race, I'll say it ovah an' ovah till da day we die."

Race grinned – it was Spot's sick was of being sentimental. Race leaned forward and put his lips right up next to Spot's ear, and he said the words, the only words, that could melt the heart of the toughest newsie in New York. "I love you, Benjamin."

Spot closed his eyes, the smile leaving his face. He let the words sink in; let them enter his brain like oxygen for the first time. Let them seep into his bloodstream and intoxicate his entire body with ecstasy.

Race tried to lie back down, but Spot's arms were around him in an instant, and they lay down as one. Race closed his eyes too, letting Spot's body weigh on him, letting Spot's scent make him dizzy, letting Spot's hand find his own …

Neither knew how long exactly they were lying like that. But eventually Race felt the sun coming in through the window hot on his face and he whispered, "Spot, we already missed sellin' dis mornin'. I gotta get back tah at least sell da aftahnoon edition. I ain't got any money as it is – I can't be missin' good sellin' days."

Spot sat up reluctantly. "Ya really gotta go?"

Race smiled. He'd never realized before how cute Spot could be, pouting as he was now. "I really gotta go. I'm shoah Jack's gonna be wonderin' where I've been. I been gone since yestahday mornin' ya know."

Spot nodded and rolled over to let Race get up. Both stood and began dressing in silence. Every once in a while, one would go over and steal a kiss from the other. A few minutes later Race was standing in front of the cracked old mirror, straightening his hat. "I look okay?" he asked seriously.

Spot smiled, "Whatcha askin' me for? I'm gonna tell ya dat ya look good no mattah what."

Race chuckled as Spot came up behind him and wrapped his arms around the Italian's waist. "But ya look _bettah_ like _dis_," Spot corrected himself.

They smiled together, and together they walked to the door. When they reached it however, Spot stopped. "Uh, Race?" he said,

Race stopped too, "Yeah?"

"My boys can't know." It was hard, but it had to be understood.

Race frowned only for a second. He knew that Brooklyn was the most important thing in Spot's life. Race wasn't about to pretend that he could replace that for Spot. Loving the Brooklynite as he did made it easier for him to accept this.. "I can tell Jack an' da boys though, right?"

Spot grimaced. He could only imagine the amount of relentless teasing that this would cause. But he nodded anyway. "I guess," he said with a smile.

"Walk me home an' we can tell 'em tagethah," Race bribed.

Spot smiled, "It's impossible tah say no tah ya Race …" he mused.

Race nodded approvingly. He was about to open the door, when another thought occurred to him. "Spot?" he asked suddenly. "Dis means …well, dis means ya ain't gonna love nobody but me right?"

Spot smiled at Race's innocence. He kissed the boy gently on the side of the head. "I couldn't nevah love nobody but you."

Race nodded and they walked downstairs together, both feeling like the whole world were merely floating around them. Nothing weighed down on them anymore, nothing worried or upset or frightened them. Except perhaps the thought of losing each other.

Spot didn't even bother telling Spike that he was leaving. Just walked right out. But Spike noticed, sure enough, and sent two sentries to watch for the king's return.

The late fall sun was shining bright. Leaves were crunching underfoot. The chilly air had that smell of oncoming snow – perhaps the first of the year. It would bring with it winds of change which would affect countless lives.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer: I love Newsies! But alas, they are not my own.**

_Author's Note: Yay, quicker update than usual. I've gone through a rather depressing life change recently which has caused me to curl up in front of my computer and do nothing but write. It's how I block out reality. So anyhow, this isn't the most exciting of chapters, but I promise I am getting to the big showdown between Spot and Spike, I just want it to be well written, and I refuse to post it until I am completely satisfied, so it might be a while - I can only allude Spike for so long, eventually he will catch up with our favorite Brooklyn king. In the meantime, all I can say is - enjoy the cuteness! And hopefully my depression will last long enough to get a few more chapters up quickly. Pleasereview!_

While the day had begun in sunshine, as Spot walked Racetrack home clouds began to fill the sky. The light gray kind which precede the snow. The clouds rolled in and the wind picked up. The two boys walked hand in hand, completely disregarding the dirty looks they were getting from passerby. They were young and in love – nothing could touch them.

A few miles still from Manhattan, Spot shivered involuntarily. Race laughed, it was adorable in a innocent-type way. "Ya cold, Spot?" he asked.

Spot chuckled too, able to laugh at himself easily in Race's company. "A little," he confessed, "But we's almost dere."

Race shook his head and shrugged off his own thick green jacket. He draped it over Spot's shoulders, and Spot gladly stuck his arms through. "Shoulda let ya freeze," Race said after a few moments, "Woulda soived ya right, not wearin' a coat in dis wheathah."

"You'd nevah let me freeze, Race, ya too nice," Spot chuckled.

"An' I love ya too much," Race said, kissing Spot's cheek lightly. Spot grinned ear to ear. He would never tire of hearing _that_.

For the rest of the trip they switched the coat back and forth between them. Spot remembered the last time he'd taken this trip, and wondered at how much more enjoyable it was this time around.

When they were still just a few yards and a bend in the road away from the Lodging House, the sky opened up, and tiny wisps of snow began falling from the heavens. Spot started to run but Race bid him stop.

"What?" Spot demanded, turning around with a mighty sigh. "It's snowin' Race, let's get da hell inside or we're gonna freeze."

But Race was standing there, in the middle of the street, face turned up to the sky. Snow flakes were falling all around him, and he had a look of awe on his face. "It's da foist snow, stupid," he said romantically, "Da foist snow's always magic. Didncha folks evah tell ya dat?"

Spot shook his head sadly, "Me folks died befoah dey could tell me much a' anythin'."

Race nodded empathetically and reached out his hand for Spot to join him. Spot took it gladly, and the two stood holding each other there, while fat snow flakes fell down around them. "Well," Race said, as if beginning a story. "Me muddah always used tah let me an' me buthahs stay home from school on da foist snow. Said it was da most magic day a' da whole year. We'd have snowball fights, an' make snowmen an' snow angels…."

Spot chuckled tah himself, "Ya look like a snow angel now," he said to Race, who was accumulating snow on his shoulders and head. Race smiled. They lingered a moment longer, and shared a passionate kiss, before finishing their journey.

Mush was the one to greet them. He opened the door to the now cold, blowing storm. "Well look who it is!" he exclaimed. "Jack! Jack, guess who it is. It's Race, he's decided tah come back."

Race laughed, "Ya gonna let us in, Mush? Or are we gonna stand out here an' freeze solid?"

Mush laughed heartily and opened the door wide enough for them to squeeze through, clapping them both on the back as they entered. Jack was running down the stairs in a minute. "Well, geez Race, we was worried about ya. An' now wid da storm an' all. I was gonna send somebody out tah look fah ya."

Race smiled at Jack's concern. The two hugged briefly, and Race looked on as Spot and Jack spit-shook. "An' tah what do we owe dis pleashah?" he asked about Brooklyn.

Spot smiled sheepishly, "Jus' thought it was about time I paid me Manhattan brothahs a visit." He and Race exchanged a glance.

Jack noticed the look but didn't say anything. He recognized the look as the knowing smile he and David used to give each other, thinking no one else could see it. But then again, the thought of Spot and Race was impossible …

"Well c'mon upstairs, we's just sittin' around," Jack explained. "The storm's gonna keep most people in tahday I think, so most a' us ain't gonna bothah with sellin'."

Race nodded as they entered the bedroom. A few of his friends were sitting cross-legged on the floor playing cards. They greeted Race with a smile and a wave. Race responded accordingly. He, Jack, and Spot found their own little corner of the room and sat back. "So what were ya doin' all night, huh Race? Dat ya didn't feel like comin' home?"

Race grinned. "Screwin' da King a' Brooklyn …" he said casually, pulling out his own deck of cards and shuffling nonchalantly.

"Oh," Jack said, nodding. "Wait … what?"

Race laughed out loud. "Screwin' da King a' Brooklyn, I said."

Jack gaped at the two of them. Spot was silent the whole time, but the smile never left his face.

"Ya know," Jack said, "I wondahed about you two downstairs, both ya lookin' so happy. But I thought dere was no way in hell. Huh …" he mused.

"No way in hell?" Spot demanded, speaking up for the first time. "Dat ain't no tah congratulate us Cowboy!"

Jack smiled, "Sorry Spot, ya right. I'm happy fah da two a' ya."

Race and Spot joined hands discreetly.

Jack continued, "Maybe now da two a you will lay off teasin' me an' Dave, huh?"

Spot shook his head, "Not on ya life," he laughed. "We may be tagethah now, but we ain't nevah gonna act like you an' Davey. Dat's gross."

Jack blushed slightly, "C'mon," he protested. "We can't be near as bad as all a you'se guys make us out tah be."

Race and Spot put on a brief skit which was meant to portray Jack and David when they were together. Said skit included such words as "Jacky-poo", "Davey-kins", "kissy-kissy", and "lovey-dovey baby".

Jack found a pillow to throw at his friends. "Fine fine!" he yelled, "I give up. So ya plannin' on tellin' da othahs?"

Race shrugged. "I'm shoah dey'll figure it out."

Jack shook his head. "Dat ain't no way tah go about it," he said. "C'mon, let me tell 'em."

Race looked at Spot, who shrugged. The Manhattan boys were some of his closest friends. Why shouldn't they get to know how happy he was? So Race told Jack "Fine," and Jack ran over to the group playing cards, leaning down to whisper to them.

Race and Spot looked at each other, as nervous as the situation would allow. They were holding hands, but other than that, nothing else was different about their appearance.

Neither heard what Jack said exactly, but in a few seconds all the boys were looking their way and smiling. And in a few more seconds they were all rushing over, making obscene noises and throwing things at the new couple …

The afternoon was an easy one. Jack opened a few bottles of beer which they passed between them for the occasion. They played cards and gossiped and told stories. As much as Race had been worried about getting to sell this afternoon, he realized it would be impossible to get away from his friends now. And Jack was right, what with the storm and all, he wouldn't sell enough to make it worth his while anyhow. So he sat back and enjoyed the afternoon among friends and loved ones.

At one point, a little before dinner, the snow calmed, and David and Sarah showed up in fluffy snowsuits, mittens, scarves, and hats. Jack's whole face lit up when he saw Dave there. "Ya look like an' Eskimo," he said fondly at the door, taking David's hands and pulling him in to kiss the boy's frost-bitten nose.

Sarah revealed that Mrs. Jacobs had sent them all a large box of freshly baked cookies to keep them warm on this, the first snow of the year.

Race couldn't imagine the last time he'd been so happy. Here he was, surrounded by friends, playing cards, drinking beer and eating deliciously warm cookies, holding the hand of the person he loved most in the world, while the very first snow was forming a blanket of white to coat the city in peace and purity.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer: Spike and Mouse are all that belong to me. Promise.**

_Author's Note: This chapter is depressing, as well as a little violent. Hopefully not to graphic however - I figure most of you are bright enough to get the idea without me having to paint you a picture. So this is finally the big show down. I wanted this chapter to sort of bring a bitter sweet taste to your mouth. I do not condone killing, and I cannot stand the fics which make newsies disposable, as if bar fight murders and suicides are nonchalant everyday occurances. So since death is indeed a part of this story, this chapter in particular, I wanted to make it a dark, sort of lost innocence, fallen angel type chapter. And I want it to be painfully obvious to readers that we are not dealing with murderers or bad people here - newsies were only children. They lived hard lives, but they didn't have a choice, that was the hand they were dealt. And so, that was my long speech, basically to say, I hope that this chapter of my story kind of touches the depth of killing that so many stories overlook. Because it's not a casual thing at all, and I hope I convey the rawness of it effectively. Hm, anyway, please review and tell me your thoughts._

The next morning broke upon the city warm and radiant. Spot walked home as if in a trance. His head was reeling; his hands were shaking. The last two nights had been the best of his life. Everything from the look on Jack's face when he'd found out, to the laughter of his friends. And then of course there was the feel of Racetrack's fingers on his skin, the sound of his own name on Race's lips, Race's lips in general …Spot felt his face heat up even against the chill air, and realized that blushing was something he'd never done before.

The sky was bright and clear now: the storm had passed, but every inch of the city was blanketed in nearly a foot of white powder. Early as it was, Spot's were some of the only footprints around and the snow still gleamed as if it were composed, not merely of frozen water, but of shining sun crystals.

The walk back to Brooklyn took twice as long as it normally would have, but Spot didn't complain. He needed some time alone with his thoughts. He'd never felt anything quite so powerful in his short life. Everything he'd ever done or seen or been seemed to have brought him to that one night with Racetrack - the annoying Italian who was now more important to him than anything in the world.

Coming upon the docks Spot took no notice at all of his surroundings. Instead he trudged straight to his room, prepared to nap after his exhausting experiences of the last few days. He shut the door behind him and hung up his cap, laid his cane close to his bed, as he always did, and was about the lie down when the door swung open.

Then Spot noticed several things at once. Several things which the sharp-eyed king of Brooklyn would never have missed, but the euphorically in-love Benjamin had overlooked. First, he could hear no voices selling the morning edition. Brooklyn was dead silent. Second, the sentries who usually watched the borders of Spot's realm had not greeted him as he'd come home that morning. And third (and even Benjamin couldn't overlook this one) suddenly all of his boys had barged through Spot's bedroom door without so much as knocking, and were all standing looking expectantly at Spike, who seemed to be leading the bunch.

Spot jumped from his bed, throwing his hands up and screaming. "What in da hall do ya think ya doin'!" Never in his life had he been so disrespected, especially by his own boys, in his own bedroom.

Spike stepped forwards and glared at Spot, saying nothing.

"Ya bettah have a damn good explanation fah dis, Spike …" Spot growled dangerously.

Spike laughed cruelly, and pulled a dagger from the inside of his vest, pointed it directly at Spot's chest and let it speak for itself.

Spot's eyes were wide; he couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. He raised his hands in a surrendering motion, and gazed around at his boys. He had never thought this day would come. Rebellion.

And he was in the worst possible position. No weapon aside from the cane at his bedside, and his own dagger hidden in his mattress, neither of which was in reach. Vulnerable.

Thoughts flew through Spot's mind like hornets: buzzing and angry and demanding attention. He didn't understand how this could have gotten so out of hand. But then he remembered the last few days, and he could … But Spot had an advantage. Spike was strong, sure, and he had the upper hand right now. But Spot had many years of fear and respect behind him. Not to mention Spot knew how to manipulate a crowd. They loved an underdog.

"We're tired a' bein' ignored, Conlon," Spike growled. "We ain't gonna be second aftah some doity Manhattanah."

"Ya don't know what ya talkin' about," Spot tried to coax his opponent. "Dis is stupid, jus' put down da knife."

"I ain't stupid. We's all in agreement here. Ya done in Brooklyn."

So much for trying to be civil. Spike had threatened Spot's kingship, and Spot would have none of it. "God damnit, Spike, ya fuckin' ignorant, ya don't have a clue in da woild what ya doin'. I'm gonna toin around an' count tah ten, an' when I toin back, I expect ya all tah be downstairs, with all dese stupid ideas outta ya head."

And Spot did the only thing he could do in the given situation. He turned his back on the boy holding the knife. Now, Spot knew two things for certain. One: while the Brooklyn boys weren't the most amiable bunch, they prided themselves on fighting fair. They could take out anyone in New York, and they could do it in a clean fight. Spot had made sure of that. And second, for whatever reason, Spike had always been an exception to the aforementioned rule.

So Spot was completely prepared when Spike raised the knife behind his back, ready to strike. And the entirety of the room gasped as one when Spot turned back again, with catlike reflexes, ducking out of the way of the knife and grabbing Spike's elbow to stop the blade. Spot couldn't help but smile at Spike's shocked face in that instant. Because while Spike was strong, it took much more than that to make it in Brooklyn, and Spot possessed the cunning that his opponent lacked. The crowd had watched as words were exchanged, yet Spot had won back the respect of at least half of them without having to utter so much as a word in his own defense. They had watched as the rebel leader tried to stab a man while his back was turned. And Spot was that man. He had made himself the underdog…

Spot twisted Spike's arm backwards and watched as he roared with pain. Then the fight began. The room was still divided. Half were still with Spike: he had merely done what he'd had to do in the face of the situation. The other half were back on Spot's side: Spot didn't deserve this disrespect, and somehow seeing him fearless in battle reminded them of their loyalty.

The two were wrestling over the knife now, and Spot, small as he was, managed to get Spike's grip on it lose enough to knock it a few inches away, just barely evading his grasp. Then, as if in slow motion, Spot saw the situation unfold before him. He saw Mouse at the edge of the crowd, a look of regret for some unknown crime plaguing his face, but overcome by a quiet admiration for Spot in his eyes. The boy saw the knife, and recognized it as his own chance at greatness, to save his king. He scurried over and dropped to his knees to retrieve the dagger.

But just as Spot had seen the situation, so also had Spike. And he reached the knife before Mouse, throwing Spot off as he did so.

Before Spot could do anything, Spike had grasped the knife with both hands, screamed "Traitor!" and there was blood everywhere. Not the blood coming from Spike or Spot's minor scuffle wounds; it was Mouse's blood. The fighting lulled, and no one spoke. Spot watched the boy, smaller and more innocent than any present, fall forward, clutching his stomach in pain until the light was gone from his eyes. He had no dying words; only that look of admiration for Spot which had quickly changed into fear and agony, and something which looked curiously like misunderstanding. Misunderstanding, perhaps, of the situation, of the people around him, of the horribly unkind world in which he'd lived his short life.

There was a moment of silence in which everyone was too shocked to say or do anything. This was the last respects the Brooklyn boys paid to their fallen comrade. Then a surge of heat made it's way through Spot's body. It was unlike him to mourn the death of anyone, even innocents. But not only did Spot mourn Mouse's death, he craved to avenge it.

He was the first to break that shocked silence which lasted barely more than a few seconds. He flew on top of Spike from behind, wrapping all of his limbs around Spike's body with a mighty yell.

And Spike fell, unable to react to such an unexpected attack. His legs crumbled beneath him, and he fell on top of the knife he held, only inches away from Mouse's body. As soon as Spike was down, Spot pushed himself away from his opponent towards where his cane rested next to his bed, the only weapon available to him. Spot noticed as he towered over Spike then, that Spike had lost a finger to the blade when he'd fell on it, and the boy was whimpering on the floor now, cradling his hand. But Spot's fury had no mercy, and there was no stopping him now, not with the heat of battle flowing through his veins.

The Brooklyn boys watched, half in horror, half in wild esteem, as Spot, King of Brooklyn, wielded his gold-tipped cane to beat the life out of Spike, the rebel leader. When it was all through, Spot stood panting above the tragic forms of the two boys, both lifeless on the cold floor. The crowds' heads were all bowed, whether in mourning for their fellow Brooklynites, or in acknowledgement of Spot, no one could know. Perhaps they bowed their heads because they could not stand to look at each other. They were defeated, ashamed, afraid of themselves.

And Spot threw down his cane. Spike had been right all along: he was done in Brooklyn. He left them then, all his once-loyal followers. Given time and effort, Spot knew he could win them all back as easily as he'd won them in the first place. But it could never be the same. The first time Spot had fought and won Brooklyn, it had cost him his innocence. This time he had fought for Brooklyn, and it had cost him much more. It had cost him the realization that so many years of his life had been wasted in the pursuit and attainment of that which had never really mattered, and never could matter to him now.

This. The fighting and killing. The respect he commanded. The instant silent when he walked into a room. The familiarity every New York newsie had with his name. They meant absolutely nothing to him now. He was appalled by his former self.

And standing in the bedroom, stunned, were all the poor souls that Spot left: alone, leaderless, lost. They were only children, after all.

And Spot wasjust as much a child as any of them. He found himselfwalking out ofBrooklyn that blue-skied day for the last time. Trailing blood like some black, angel of death; unsure of where he was going, but knowing he had to go.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, and it makes me sad.**

_Author's Note: This story is drawing to a close quickly. I saw the ending while writing the last chapter, and I'm afraid my muse has spoken. There will only be one, maybe two, chapters to follow this one. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's got a little sad and a little cute all mixed in. As always, please leave me some feedback. Thank you._

Mickey was a Brooklyn newsie. Had been for as far back as he could remember. He had been around long before even the infamous Spot Conlon had taken the throne of Brooklyn. He had seen leaders come and go, but never in all his years had he seen anything like this. He was one of the older newsies, and many thought of him as sort of an older and wiser brother. He and the rest of the boys watched Spot trudge out the door and heard him thunder down the stairs. Some went to the window to watch their king sprinting away from the docks as fast as his tired legs would carry him, all wondering what he was running from. Mickey had never seen Spot run away from anything.

There was an extended silence during which no one spoke. A few boys crowded around Mouse's body, limp on the floor. But only one was brave enough to approach the mangled form of Spike. It was Spike's cousin, Red. Mickey watched as Red knelt and wiped some of the blood from Spike's face. It was a hard sight to behold. But there was nothing anyone could do. The Brooklyn boys would have to manage as best they could. They would bury their dead, one way or another they would adopt a new leader, they would wash the blood away, and they would move on. There were mouths to feed and rents to be paid – no one could afford to care too much.

Mickey sighed and was the first to leave the room. He followed the trail of blood Spot had left behind and made his way out into the chill afternoon. He had always been loyal to Spot. He didn't think it mattered what Spot did with his personal life – Spot was the strongest leader Brooklyn had ever seen. Nothing would change that; nothing could.

So Mickey knew what he had to do. He didn't know who this boy was from Manhattan that Spot was seeing - he didn't spend much time out that way - but Mickey had been in love once, and he was certain that the boy would want to know the news. God only knew where Spot was, or if he had any plans of going to Manhattan, tonight or ever. He had left completely broken, ripped wide open at the seams, and Mickey didn't know where he planned to go. Sure enough, glancing over his shoulder, Spot's bloody footprints were headed in the opposite direction.

The walk to Manhattan was filled with disturbing thoughts for Mickey. Thoughts of what would happen to Brooklyn now, without Spot Conlon. Thoughts of Spot, the once great king wandering off somewhere miserable. And somehow, more important than the rest, thoughts of the poor boy who was soon to learn that Spot was gone.

Mickey reached the Manhattan Lodging House close to supper time. It was Jack Kelly who came to the door to greet him. Mickey recognized him and stretched out his hand. "Da name's Mickey O'Malley," he said expressionless, "I'm from Brooklyn, an' I got some bad news…"

Jack shook hands, "Jack Kelly," he said, suddenly anxious, "C'mon in an' we can tawk."

Mickey nodded his thanks and followed Jack inside, very professionally. They sat down at a table together, in a more private corner of the room, and Mickey looked around at the boys, a few of whom had raised their heads in curiosity when Mickey had entered, but they didn't dare stick their noses in Jack's business.

Mickey began talking as soon as they were seated. "Dere's been some trouble with Spot," he said quietly, and noticed a dark-eyed boy who'd been playing cards with himself glance up at the name. Mickey continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Dere's been talk he's been neglectin' his duties back in Brooklyn, an' it's been rumored it's 'cause of a boy here dat he's been … involved with."

Mickey noticed Jack swallow hard, but the Manhattan leader never let his eyes leave Mickey. He would not slip and glance towards the culprit - he was protecting his boys. Mickey's tone was not accusatory at all, but Jack couldn't be sure.

"Well a' couple a' da boys confronted him about it dis aftahnoon, an' a kid, name a' Mouse, an' da one startin' all da trouble, Spike, dey both got knocked off."

Jack's face was hard and unreadable; he was waiting for the unavoidable end of the story.

"Spot ran off soon as it was all ovah," Mickey explained. "I dunno where he's plannin' on goin', I dunno if it's safe fah him – dere's still boys who think Spike was right challengin' Spot an' might wanna get back at him, I dunno if you'se even wanna get involved…"

There was a pause in the Brooklyn boys' speech, and Jack waited patiently for him to finish.

"But I do know dere ain't much in dis woild as coulda made Spot Conlon leave Brooklyn behind him like dat. Whoevah dis boy is, if ya even know who it is, he's special – important. He's gonna wanna know what happened, an' dat's why I'm here."

Jack nodded solemnly, grimly thankful for this messenger of ill tidings. He was trusting of Mickey now, and tried to be polite. "Thank you," he said quietly, still unable to keep the businesslike tone out of his voice. But he was sincere. "Brooklyn's always been one a' our closest allies, an' Spot's always been one a' my closest friends. We'se gonna do our best tah find him. I can't make any promises 'bout his goin' back tah Brooklyn, howevah. Dat's up tah Spot."

Mickey nodded, sage like, "I undahstand. I'm just heah tah delivah da news. I'm headin' back tah Brooklyn now, dose boys are gonna need help cleanin' up dis mess. Jus' take care a' yaself - an' Spot, if ya find him. He was da best thing dat evah happened tah Brooklyn, an' I'm sad tah see him go. But everybody's gotta grow up soonah or latah I guess."

Jack nodded and both boys stood up together. Mickey cast one more glance to the brown-eyed boy who'd lifted his head at Spot's name. He was still watching them, his eyes full of worry. He looked away quickly when he saw that Mickey was looking back at him. But it was too late, Mickey realized with a jolt that this was the boy, and he felt like he was going to be sick.

The entire way home it was impossible to shake that face. How pale it was, and afraid, about to find out that his lover was lost, in danger, possibly gone forever. It would take Mickey weeks to forget the feeling he'd gotten looking at those anguished eyes, and by then, it would be too late…

As soon as Jack had closed the door behind Mickey, Race was on his feet. He practically ran to Jack across the room, not caring what the boys thought. He tried not to let his voice shake too badly as he asked, "What about Spot? What's goin' on, Jack? Ya don't look good …"

Jack grimaced. He didn't think he'd ever had to do something so hard, in all his time as leader of Manhattan. "C'mon, let's step outside a' minute, okay Race?"

And then Race knew it was bad. He was silent as Jack guided him through the door. The wind whipped at the boys as soon as they got outside. Night was just falling now, and it brought with it a stinging cold that hadn't existed in the glare of the winter sun.

"What happened Jack?" Race asked, and his voice sounded so childlike that Jack thought he could have cried for his friend.

"It's Spot," Jack nearly whispered. "Dere was a sort a' rebellion. Da Brooklyn boys weren't happy with da way Spot was runnin' things." Jack paused, knowing he couldn't bear to tell Race that it was his fault, and realizing he didn't know the specifics of the story well enough to tell a good lie. So he did the best he could. "I guess dere was a fight –" Jack saw the panicked look on Racetrack's face then and said the rest very quickly. –"Spot's fine," he assured his friend, "he won. But I guess he left right aftah, an' nobody knows where he's goin'. An' dat Mickey boy said it might not be safe fah Spot tah be out. Dere's still dose who'd want him tah pay fah abandonin' Brooklyn."

The look of panic was gone from Racetrack's face, to be replaced by a dull nauseated expression, as if he were going to be sick right there. Jack waited for him to say something.

"Race? You okay?"

Race shook his head and sat down. Jack didn't want to tell Race that he was sitting in a snowdrift, so instead he crouched down beside him. He could only imagine what this was doing to Race. If it were David who were lost and in danger, Jack didn't know what he'd do. Probably lie down beside Race and the two of them could wish away reality together, going numb together in the wonderful icy nothingness... But he couldn't let Race know that.

"It's gonna be fine, Race, c'mon," Jack tried to sound as comforting as possible. "I'm gonna send da boys out tah look fah him. We'll find him, an' everythin's gonna be okay."

Race looked up and nodded wearily. How could this be happening? Now, after everything was so perfect …

Jack was about to help Race up when the Italian picked himself up and told Jack, "I'm goin' now. Send whoevah ya can tah help. I wanna have him home by tamarrah."

Jack didn't have the heart to argue with Race as he trudged away, shoulders slumped against the cold. Jack watched him go, and just when he had turned his back and pushed the door open, he heard Race in the distance, calling Spot's name …

Less than an hour later, Jack had emptied the entire Lodging House. Manhattan boys flooded the streets of every borough, searching everywhere for their friend. Mostly they stuck together in groups of two's or three's, and Jack shuddered every time he had to think of Race, alone out there somewhere.

But Racetrack was not alone. He had plenty of miserable thoughts to accompany him. He wandered on, not sure where to look. He checked all the obvious places first, but beyond that, he was lost. Around Midtown he stopped and sat beside a dumpster. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a few other boys calling Spot's name. It made him feel good to know that he wasn't alone in the search, but it still seemed hopeless.

Race closed his eyes wearily and just concentrated on breathing. Then he opened his eyes and he did something he'd never done before. "Hey," he said quietly to the empty air around him, "I know dis ain't somethin' I do dat often. But dat's why I figure you'll listen tah me now."

Race didn't pay any attention to how crazy he must sound, had anyone been close enough to hear him. "I can't remembah da last time I asked ya fah anythin', so ya owe me, right? Everybody gets at least one favah, an' I'm cashin' mine in now. Spot," then Race stopped and corrected himself so he could be sure his audience would know exactly who he was talking about. "Benjamin," he began again, "he ain't like anyone I evah known befoah. An' I really care about him, ya know? So I dunno really what I gots tah say heah, promise ya tah be good or somethin', but whatevah it is, ya gotta know I'll do it. 'Cause Spot's da most special thing dat's happened tah me, prolly in me whole life. I can't lose him now. Please. I'm beggin' ya."

When Race stopped speaking, he realized that at least some unconscious part of him had been wishing for an audible answer to his prayer, because when none came, he felt tangible disapointment sieze him. Grudgingly, Race pulled himself up and kept walking. He kept on walking for hours, no idea where he was after a while, and it was with a heavy heart that he realized he couldn't hear the voices of his fellow newsies anymore. Had they given up so easily?

Race sighed, knowing it was nearly dawn by now, and he couldn't feel his feet for cold. He would have to continue the search tomorrow. Race spent the walk home occupying himself by trying hard not to think of Spot, alone and possibly freezing to death on this frost-bitten night.

Coming upon his home he realized all the lights were on, and so he quickened his pace. By the time he reached the stairs he could hear muted voices through the door. He threw it open and inside he found all the Manhattan boys, looking at him with sad eyes. The reason: Spot was lying on the floor in the middle of the room on a couple of folded blankets, Jack kneeling by his side. Spot was even paler than usual, if that was possible, his hair was matted in blood, just like his clothes – whose blood it was, Race had no idea – and his eyes were closed. He was breathing heavily and unevenly, so while clearly alive, he was in awful shape. Race only noticed briefly how uncomfortable everyone else in the room was: as if seeing the King of Brooklyn in this condition weren't bad enough, now they were watching Race's misery over it. It was like they were watching something they shouldn't be, intruding on Race's privacy, and yet none of them could bear to leave Spot. Instead, they all merely diverted their eyes uneasily.

Jack was the only one who didn't seem at all disturbed by the situation. He was tending to Spot calmly, and didn't even look up when Race had entered. Race was on the floor by his side in seconds.

"Where'd ya find him?" he asked.

Still Jack did not look up. "Some rundown pub, jus' south a' da Bronx, 'bout an hour ago. Was Mush dat found him. Says he was jus' sittin' out on da stairs with a bottle in his hand, shakin' like crazy. He's been drinkin all night." Jack stopped there and let his tone become harsh. "Dumb fuck," he said through a clenched jaw, "as if he weren't in enough trouble, in bad enough shape, he goes an' gets hisself drunk …" Race saw that Jack was nearly as upset over Spot as he himself was. Jack rolled his eyes and said under his breath, as if it were meant for Spot's ears only: "It don't always fix ya problems, Spot. When ya gonna learn dat? Damn, ya so stupid sometimes ..."

Race reached out a hand and traced the length of Spot's face. Only now did Jack chance a brief look at Race's, and he wished instead that he'd kept his eyes on Spot. Jack sighed, "Mush said da whole way home he was callin' ya name, Race. Mush kept tellin' him dat you was gonna be heah waitin' fah him. But Spot's still so outta it, I don't think he hoid a woid. I'm gonna go get some more blankets an' set him up a bed. You two can have my room tahnight," Jack said solemnly, "I'll take ya bunk Race."

Race didn't try to protest. He hardly had the energy to raise his head, let alone start a fight with Jack about getting his bed…

Twenty minutes or so later, Jack had helped Race carry Spot up the stairs – the skinny king didn't look like much, but it took all Jack and Racetrack's combined efforts to lift him and haul him to Jack's bedroom. They placed him as gently as they could on the bed, and Jack turned to Race. "I'm goin' tah get some sleep, Race," he said, "I've still got woik in da mornin'. Well … in a couple hours. Spot ain't dat badly hoit. I took a look at him when dey got him heah. Jus' keep cleanin' anythin' dat's still bleedin' an' keep him as warm as ya can."

Race nodded. He was starting to get feeling back. The shock of seeing Spot so hurt and vulnerable had passed, to be replaced by a fierce protectiveness. Jack seemed to understand. "Oh, an' hey Race," he turned back, halfway out the door, as if he'd forgotten something.

"Yeah?"

"I tawked tah da rest a' da boys befoah ya got heah. We all undahstand if ya ain't gonna sell tahmarrah; we know ya haven't been sellin' in a while. But we get it - we see dat ya got a lot on ya plate right now. …So we all pitched in, an' we'se gonna covah ya food and rent fah a couple a' days. Dat alright with you?"

Race could only nod. Of course it was alright with him: he didn't know what he'd do without Jack and the rest of the boys. "Thanks so much, Jack, dat means a lot." Jack saw the tears welling up in Race's eyes and smiled a little before he closed the door on his way out.

Race turned around to face the boy on the bed beside him. Spot's eyes were still barely half open, he was slipping in and out of consciousness. Not that it mattered, even if Spot had regained complete coherence, he was too intoxicated to notice anything going on around him. Race worked carefully. The blood was all gone from Spot's skin where Jack had washed him, but his clothes were still miserably dirty with grime and blood. Race peeled off Spot's shirt with gentler fingers than was absolutely necessary, and then pulled off Spot's trousers. Race shuddered to realize that Spot's skin was still freezing. "Race?" Spot murmured through blue lips.

Race dropped Spot's trousers on the floor by the dresser where he'd been folding them with care and rushed to the bedside. He took Spot's hand in his and whispered, "It's me, Spot. I'm right heah. How ya feelin?"

Race knew Spot was too incapacitated to respond, but it made him feel better to be talking to him anyhow. Spot managed another mumbled little "Race …" At least it wasn't a question this time, and that was enough for Race.

Silently he took stock of Spot's injuries. The boy had an enormous bruise under his left eye, as well as several scrapes and gashes all over his body – the worst of which being on his right bicep. That cut was so deep, Race had to hold the wet cloth Jack had left on it for several hours before the bleeding stopped.

But Race did not forget what Jack had said about keeping Spot warm. He removed his clothes just as he'd removed Spot's and climbed under the covers. He held Spot close to his body, whispering to him every once in a while, even knowing that Spot could not hear him.

And then, right before he fell asleep, he remembered his conversation of the afternoon. He kissed the top of Spot's head, and looked up to the ceiling. "Thanks," he whispered, "I mean, really thanks. I owe ya one …"


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Disclaimer: I've tried, but the newsies still don't belong to me. Damn.**

_Author's Note: I wanted this chapter to be a kind of review - a drastic contrast so that the reader can compare where they were to where they are now. It's not only Spot who's been changed - Race is just as affected by Spot's love. They have both been changed forever, and I tried to make that as real as possible. It's not easy going from hardass newsies to anything sentimental at all. Also, there is only one chapter left. I'm really going to miss this story, lol, so please read and review and I'll get the final chapter up as soon as possible._

Race didn't know when or how, but somehow he'd fallen asleep when he hadn't meant to. The emotional exhaustion of the day before must have caught up with him. Because once he was asleep, he was gone. He slept through the rest of the boys getting up at dawn to go carry the banner, he slept through the sun slanting through the window directly into his eyes, and he even slept through Jack peaking his head in to check on them after selling. The Manhattan leader smiled seeing the pair slumbering away together, and suddenly he wondered how he hadn't seen how perfect they were together sooner.

It was lunchtime by the time Race shook himself. The commotion of the other boys all on their way to get food, and the realization that he himself had not eaten for nearly twenty four hours, woke him. He let his eyes flutter open and breathed a sigh of contentment feeling Spot still pressed against his body. The babbling incoherence of the night before had given way to a peaceful sleep, and Race was grateful. He sat up as carefully as he could, determined not to wake his partner, and looked over Spot's injuries. The black eye was worse than ever, but there was nothing to be done about that. Most of the lesser cuts were healing over, but Race decided to clean out the gash on his right arm one more time. He fetched some fresh water, ointment, and a clean bandage from downstairs and worked diligently, cleansing the wound and then wrapping the bandage tight around it. Just as he was finishing tying it up, he sensed Spot's eyes on him.

Race smiled. He resisted the urge to throw himself into Spot's arms and confess how terrified he'd been over Spot's absence. Spot was looking up at him, expressionless.

Neither one could speak.

Finally after moments of silence, Spot said in a cracky, hoarse voice, "Well, ya still heah. Which is moah den I expected …"

Race let the déjà vu sink in, the smile wide and ecstatic on his face. He set aside his bandaging things and let his face meet Spot's in a gentle kiss. "Ya so god damned stupid sometimes, Conlon," he murmured against Spot's lips.

Spot reached up and pulled Race down with him. They lay together, holding each other and Spot said, "I know. It don't make any sense why ya still heah with me. Ya desoive so much bettah den I can give ya, Race."

Race kissed the side of Spot's head softly, "Shut up, ya bum – ya ain't gonna win. I'm in love with ya and ya couldn't get rid a' me now, not if ya tried."

Spot sighed. "I nevah thought last night dat I'd be wakin' up heah."

It was the first Spot had mentioned of anything that had happened the afternoon previous. Race was almost afraid to ask about it. "What happened, Spot?" he said in barely more than a whisper.

Spot sat up then, untangling himself from Race. It took some effort, but he managed it after a few groans of pain. He sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, aware he was in nothing but his boxers. Race sat up next to him, soothingly rubbing his back. Spot would have thought Race would be disgusted by how terribly pathetic and broken down he looked at this current point in his life, but Race was there all the same: comforting, supporting, loving Spot like he never dreamed was possible. And he knew this was exactly why he hadn't been able to get Race's eyes out of his head for months.

Spot sighed. "I dunno. Dey all just came at me in my room yestahday aftah I got home. Dey was yellin' an' Spike – da bum dat's supposed tah be my second – comes at me with a knife. He ended up killin' dis kid, Mouse. Poor thing nevah had a chance. I dunno what happened aftah dat, I can't remembah nothin'. But I musta killed him, cause he wouldn't a' let me walk outta dere alive, an' da next memory I have is sittin' outside dat pub, tryin' tah fahget everythin'…"

"Why didn't ya come heah?" There was only the slightest hint of hurt in Race's tone.

"I didn't know if dat would get you in trouble too," Spot explained calmly, the look of nauseated misery never left his face. "I dunno how dey found out about us, I wasn't careful enough I guess …"

Race's eyes shot to Spot's face, "What do ya mean, found out about us. Dis ain't about us."

Spot chuckled, "Race, dat's da reason fah da whole rebellion…"

Race felt like he could cry. "Jack jus' told me …" he trailed off as the realization of the situation sunk in. Jack had lied to protect him. "Oh."

Spot's shoulders were slumped in weary exhaustion. Race shook his head suddenly. "Ya lost Brooklyn 'cause a me?" he said.

Spot said nothing. He couldn't quite believe it himself. Not that Race wasn't worth it, of course he was. It was just, Brooklyn had been his only care for so long, now it was gone completely. It was hard to comprehend.

"Spot, I'm so sorry," Race stood and left Spot's side, pacing to the window. He looked down over the streets still covered in snow. People went about their daily lives, smiles on their faces, and Race felt like the only person to have ever felt such misery.

Spot stood and joined his lover at the window. "Race …" he said, and somehow the words just couldn't form. He wanted to tell Racetrack that he loved him, that he was worth it all, that nothing could compare to how important Race was to him. But nothing came out. He wanted to describe all the emotions of the past few months. How he'd walked all the way to Manhattan in the storm that one night, just to see Race's eyes, to confirm what he'd discovered: that he had feelings for Race which reached deeper and stronger than the feelings of friendship previously harbored. How he had been nearly destroyed the night of Race's rejection – it had been like the very life of him had been ripped out through his chest. How it had felt that night after Race came back: the joy, the tears, the rollercoaster of emotions that left Spot dizzy with ecstasy. Most of all, how everything in his life had seemed to fall into place when he'd heard that voice he so adored speak his name with love …

But none of this seemed to be able to make its way to Spot's lips. So instead he wrapped his arms around Race from behind and said softly, "I just love ya."

Race felt Spot's hot breath in his ear and it sent a shock of heat coursing through his body. He nuzzled Spot's head with his own. "I really am sorry … I didn't mean fah any a dis tah happen."

"I know," Spot kissed Race's hair. "Did I really scare ya last night?" he asked teasingly, changing the subject.

Race laughed, "I couldn't function," he said honestly.

Spot sighed. "Nevah leave," he pleaded.

Race squeezed his hand, "Nevah."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Disclaimer: I've tried and tried, but the newsies just don't belong to me. Also, the song used at the end is called the Freshman by Verve Pipe.**

_Author's Note: So this is the very last chapter. I cried the entire time I was writing it, I will miss this story so much. I tried my hardest to make it memorable, and please don't hate me for the ending. My muse told me this was the way it had to be, so it couldn't be helped. I sincerely hope you enjoy it - I know I've enjoyed writing it and getting your feedback on it. Anyhow, if you finish this and you like my style, feel free to check out some of my other stories - I've got at least five or six other newsies one-shots. Also, I'll probably be starting another chapter story for newsies soon, so watch for my name. Again, thank you so much to anyone who's been reading faithfully and reviewing, you will never know how much you've meant to me. So I guess that's all I can say. Please leave me a few nice words (or nasty ones, lol, whichever you'd prefer) after you finish this. I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you so much._

Days passed for the Manhattan newsies in a state of almost euphoric bliss. After that first night, Spot insisted he couldn't take Jacks bunk any longer, so he got his own set up next to Race. More often than not, however, the boys would wake up to find Spot and Race sharing a bed, regardless of where they had originally lain down to sleep.

It was strange at first, for the Manhattan boys to see Spot Conlon living among them. Spot was a legend, not just any old newsie who drank and smoked and sold with them. But Spot was trying his hardest to blend in – something he'd never done before. He accepted Jack as the leader in Manhattan and treated him as such. He recognized that he was no longer the King. Not of Brooklyn, not anywhere. He would fade into history, and one day people would say: "Spot Conlon, the greatest leader Brooklyn ever had, and the most famous newsie in all of New York. I wonder whatever happened to him …"

Christmas was approaching, and the red and green that shone from every street corner could not fail to bring a smile to everyone's faces. Snow sparkled like diamonds from the sky, children's faces were all scarlet with cold inside their hoods, bells tinkled silver from every shop door, and always there lingered the faintest hint of a carol on the air.

Race and Spot sold together as often as they could. Race told Spot it was because he loved spending time with him, but it was mostly that he didn't want to let Spot out of his sight. Jack had warned him in private of what Mickey had said. That there were still those out there who had been won over whole heartedly by Spike's cause, and would want Spot dead. This worried Race more than he could say, and he hardly let Spot alone for more than a few minutes at a time, if that.

Spot spent the week or so after his coming to Manhattan realizing that there was no way he could stay. He loved Jack and the boys like brothers. They had always been there for him, and had passed this most recent test of friendship with flying colors. But Spot could not simply live his life trying to adapt to their way of life. He didn't belong in Manhattan - that much was clear. He didn't know if he even belonged in New York any longer. He didn't know anything. He was as lost as he'd been those first few weeks alone on the streets of the city, trying to make it as a young newsie. With one small difference: he had Racetrack in his life now …

A thought had come to him days ago, and wouldn't seem to leave him alone. What if he were to ask Race to leave somewhere with him? It didn't matter where. They could go away and start a new life. Maybe Spot would get a real job; they could even get a real place. No more a-penny-a-pape nonsense. They could get factory jobs, or work in a restaurant somewhere, maybe a convenience store. The days would be long, sure, and the bills would be nearly unbearable, but Racetrack would be there with him, day in and day out. And the nights would be theirs, just as they always had been.

Thinking all of this over made Spot nervous. But he couldn't see another way. So he planned it all out in his head. It would be his Christmas present to Race. Spot would take him to Central Park Christmas Eve and propose his idea. There would be snow and lights, it would be perfect. Spot had never been much of a romantic, but that didn't matter. Something in Race's smile, or perhaps it was the touch of his hand, made Spot want to be everything he had never been before.

"Look like ya doin' some serious thinkin' dere, Conlon," Jack called from across the common room.

Spot chuckled and threw a piece of trash off the ground at him. Their conversation was easy and fun, just two good friends sharing a rare moment of peace. "Jus' thinkin' about how ridiculous ya look in dat bandanah a' yours."

Jack glanced at the red bandana around his neck, straightened it and grinned proudly. "Ya jus' jealous."

Spot rolled his eyes. "So what do ya Manhattan boys do fah Christmas, huh?"

Jack shrugged. "What we do every othah day I suppose. No sellin' though. We sleep in, go tah Tibby's fah lunch. Exchange some presents sometimes. Last year Mrs. Jacobs had Les, Sarah, an' Dave bring ovah some eggnog an' Christmas cookies. We mixed some whiskey in da eggnog … Davey was sick all ovah da place, an' even Les wasn't walkin' straight." Jack smiled fondly at the memory.

"Ya fahgot da part where ya got Dave jus' drunk enough tah get in his pants," Spot teased.

Jack laughed, but his face turned a deep shade of maroon, making Spot laugh out even louder. "Don't you even tawk about me an' Davey," Jack said, "when you an' Race can't keep ya hands off each othah."

Spot shook his head, smiling.

"It _was_ one a' me best Christmases …" Jack conceded thoughtfully, with a grin on his face which betrayed rather obviously he and David's activities that night…

Just then a chuckle from near the doorway brought the two back to reality. Race sauntered over and stood behind Spot's chair, placing his hands on the boys' shoulders and leaning down to give a kiss.

Jack let out a groan, "Ah, c'mon, ya makin' me sick." But he smiled warmly at the pair. He was glad that they could be so comfortable here. He was glad he was in command of boys who were open minded and kind hearted, who could take Spot and Race's relationship – as well as his own relationship with David – in stride. It was a rare thing indeed. And he felt such pride at being a part of this little haven of intimacy and understanding that he thought he might burst. He couldn't know how short-lived it all would be.

That night Jack heard once again through the grapevine that there were a close-knit group of Brooklyn newsies who were hunting for Spot and who, when they found him, were planning to eliminate him.

He informed Race of the developments, and urged Race to be even more careful with Spot. Neither one wanted to tell Spot that he was being pursued - they knew the Brooklynite too well. And so they were well aware that if Spot found out, it would just anger him, and not only would he _not_ be more careful, he'd probably end up doing something stupid like trying to find them and take them on himself. It was a risk neither was willing to take.

So Race simply nodded when Jack told him and trudged his way up to the bunkroom where Spot was lounging with a few other boys.

"Ya fahget who ya dealin' with, Blink," he was saying, betting a few more coins in the card game they were engaged in.

Race lingered in the door frame a second or two, just watching. It only took Spot a moment to notice him, however – it scared Race sometimes how Spot could just sense his pretense. "C'mon, sit down," Spot said grinning, "I'm about tah win a week's woith a Blink's earnin's."

Race chuckled and joined the boys. He caught a glimpse of Spot's cards and knew inwardly that Spot was being truthful – Blink didn't stand a chance this hand.

The three played cards until nearly midnight, when finally Blink, stifling a yawn, threw down his cards. "Dat's a night fah me, boys, I'm gonna have tah sell over a hundred papes a' day fah a month tah get back half da money I lost tahnight!"

Spot grinned apologetically, and waved at Blink as he trudged off tah his bunk and sleep.

Race yawned as well, and took Spot's hand. "We should get some sleep too, ya know. Tamarrah's Christmas Eve. Den we get Christmas off, huh? Let's get some rest."

Spot nodded – the mention of Christmas Eve bringing butterflies to his stomach. "Shoah," he mumbled, and followed Race to his bunk.

Taking down his suspenders and stripping off his shirt, Spot surprised Race by climbing into the same bed as him. Race grinned. "What's dis?"

Spot grabbed Race by the shoulders and pulled the boy down on top of him. "Ya Christmas present tah me," he retorted.

Race's face lit up as he pulled the blanket over their heads and disappeared in a sea of bed sheets, giggling happily...

Christmas Eve dawned bright for the newsies, with that chill promise of a beautiful day in the air. Jack and the others were up with the sun, selling their papes with smiles, knowing that tomorrow would be one of the rare days they ever got a break. Not a soul was anything other than ecstatic that day. And in the evening, Jack and a few other boys, including Spot and Race, headed to Tibby's for drinks.

The atmosphere was all around cheerful. At one point, Jack pulled Spot aside to tell him just how happy he was to see Spot happy. That he enjoyed having Spot in Manhattan, and he was welcome as long as he wished to stay. But there was a glint there in Jack's not-quite-sober stare which told Spot that the Manhattan leader knew he wouldn't be staying much longer at all.

Spot embraced Jack, clapping him on the back. "I want tah thank ya, Jacky boy. I ain't nevah had anybody take me in like dis, show me dis kind a' hospitality. Ya da best friend anyone could ask fah. I want ya tah know dat."

Jack smiled and Spot smiled, and they shared a moment, there in that dingy pub, with all kinds of commotion going on around them. Laughing boys, poker games, spilt beers, smoke. It was the image of a newsies life. And with his friends all around and Racetrack at the table with Specs, expertly utilizing the poker face only he could read, Spot felt that he had never been so happy in his life. Now, there was only one last thing left to complete his ecstasy.

Spot smiled one last time at Jack, they spit shook, and then he headed over to where Race was sitting. He wrapped his arms around Race from behind and whispered in his ear.

Race felt the warm breath in his ear before any words actually registered. When he realized Spot had asked him if he wanted to take a walk, he smiled. "I'll be back, Specs, den I'll really show ya how tah play dis game …"

Specs rolled his eyes, and Spot gave a little nibble on Race's earlobe in thanks. The two bundled up quickly in whatever scarves and gloves they could find and set out. Spot took Race's hand and began dragging him along. "Where're we goin', Spot? We can't be gone long …"

But Spot was grinning from ear to ear, his heart pounding somewhere near the back of his throat. "I got somethin' I need tah tawk tah ya about," he explained, "An' it can't wait."

Race rolled his eyes, but he too could not seem to shake the stupid smirk he wore. Neither could have possibly noticed that they were being followed.

Finally they arrived in Central Park. All around, the trees were draped in ropes of colorful lights. The stars which shone from the heavens could not have been more breathtaking. The snow crunched underfoot, and the wind rushed at their faces, leaving their cheeks rosy with pleasure. Somewhere in the distance they could discern a few strains of _Silent Night._

Spot had Racetrack sit down on a bench and proceeded to kneel before him.

Race's breath caught in his chest, and he became incapable of speech. Both boys saw, for just a moment, themselves as of six months ago. Racetrack a carefree spirit, with nothing to care about except where he would get the money for dinner that night, and with no one to tell him it was okay, he didn't always have to be the clown. And Spot, just a mess with no one at all to care for him, always on his guard, always untrusting, always lost.

"Spot," Race whispered, "What are you doing?"

Again, Spot was seized with a sense of sickening anxiety. "I love ya, Race," he said quietly.

Race looked at Spot, kneeling in the snow, gazing up at Race with those beautiful sea green eyes. "I know dat," he smiled, "I love you too …"

"I loved ya since dat foist day we tawked in August. Probably even befoah dat, but I was too thick tah notice …" Spot said and chuckled.

Race smiled. From the bushes there came the slightest rustling sound, but neither cared enough to give any notice…

"But I can't stay heah," Spot continued. Race nodded silently. The wind seemed to pick up.

Spot broke his gaze for the first time, letting it fall instead at Race's feet. "I can't stay," he repeated. "But I gotta be honest with ya." He met Race's eyes once more and said, "I wouldn't last a day anywhere without ya."

Race smiled. As unemotional as he so often was, he could now feel the tiny beginnings of tears warming his eyes.

_Silent Night_ was reaching its climax, and Spot reached up and took Race's hand. A tear spilled over and nearly froze on Racetrack's cheek. Spot chuckled, "I love ya, Race," he said again, and Race could tell Spot was having a hard time getting out exactly what it was he wanted to say.

Racetrack reached down and, with his free hand, brought Spot's face to meet his own in the gentlest kiss they'd ever shared. Spot could taste the salt of Race's tears on his lips.

Spot smiled warmly, filled with a new determination. He clenched both of Race's hands in his own and opened his mouth to ask the boy he so cared for to run away with him, to spend the rest of his life with him, to love him until they both drew their last breath.

But the only noise that could be heard was the sound of a gunshot and Spot's sharp intake of breath. He lurched forward, falling into Race's lap. Race thought he screamed Spot's name, but he couldn't be sure. He fell off the bench onto the snow, now clutching Spot's broken body.

Looking towards the trees, Race saw several boys dashing out of sight. The one holding the gun, he would later find out, was Red, Spike's cousin. But none of that mattered just now.

"Spot?" Race whispered, tears flowing suddenly. "Benjamin …?"

Spot looked up, feeling himself become drenched with the blood now flowing from his wound. His eyes were slightly out of focus and were glazing over, but he had no trouble at all finding Race's eyes. Those caring brown eyes that had saved him from himself. They were crying now, and Spot's heart broke.

"Race," he choked out. Memories were flooding Spot's brain; he was becoming disoriented. But in all the muddle, he remembered why he had brought Race here in the first place…

Race could only watch helplessly as Spot mumbled on: "Da name's Benjamin … Race … I wanted ya tah know. Me muddah … Brooklyn … love you"

Race's fingers were sticky with Spot's blood. He knew there was no way that Spot was going to make it, and so he did not call for help, did not even try and move Spot from their place crouched in the snow. He would not waste the last minutes they had together. The music had stopped several minutes ago.

"Shhh," Race whispered, his voice faltering. "Shhh, Spot. It's gonna be alright. I love you …" Race let out a broken sob. "Oh God … I love you …"

Spot reached up a bloody finger and wiped Race's eyes. "I wanted tah ask ya …" he whispered, desperate to get out what he'd meant to tell Race in the beginning. "If you'd come with me …"

Race sobbed harder, rocking Spot back and forth.

Spot tried to shake Race with what was left of his strength. "Race …" he pleaded for an answer, "Race …"

Racetrack nodded his head. He could hardly see through his tears. "A' course," he whispered, "A' course, I'd go with ya anywhere …"

The wind whipped through the trees, and fat snow flakes began to fall. Race was well aware that Spot was nearly incoherent now, but he could have sworn that he saw Spot smile at the soft flakes falling all around them. "I love you …" Race managed to choke out just once more.

"I love you," Spot parroted, letting out what Racetrack knew was his last breath. And with this last breath, he implored Racetrack one last time: "Come with me …"

Then he was gone. Race noticed that the sound of the wind and snow now seemed empty and meaningless with Spot silent beside him. He continued to hold the body until he was nearly frozen through. Sobbing and sobbing, the blood soaking the virgin snow…

By the time Jack found Race, dawn had all but broke upon the city. Race was so cold he couldn't feel any part of his body – he was shaking and his eyes were bloodshot. Spot's body was frozen through – his lips were blue and his limbs were stiff with the cold.

Jack couldn't stop himself vomiting all over the snow upon finding them there, all drenched in Spot's blood. It took three other boys to tear Racetrack away from Spot's body, and just as many to help carry him back to the Lodging house.

In the weeks to come, Race spoke little, if at all. He gave up selling, and spent days and nights just wandering the streets, lost. He had thought often of jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. After all, hadn't Spot asked him to come along? Race knew, somewhere deep in himself, that this wasn't what Spot had been asking, but the thought was just so tempting sometimes …

He played over and over in his head the stages of their love, and Spot's face haunted his dreams for months. But nothing, _nothing_, was like the pain he felt whenever he thought Spot's name to himself. _Benjamin._ He decided almost immediately that he would not tell a soul. Spot had not told anyone. And so Race would continue to keep the secret, until the day he died. That was the one part of Spot that was his alone, and he would cherish it forever.

For the truth of the matter was, as Racetrack discovered late one night, he and Spot had shared something that was unique, special – something that almost didn't exist on the cruel streets of New York City.

They had loved each other. Nothing would change that, nothing ever could. They had loved each other with such a passion as most people will never know in an entire lifetime of searching for it. Whether it had been fate (as Spot's own father would have believed) or pure dumb luck (as Race himself was more prone to say) or a divine combination of the two, Spot and Race had found each other, and they had loved each other.

And even though Racetrack's own heart had been torn out torn out the night Spot died, he realized that it was worth it. Even though they would never get to grow old together, it was worth it. Even though Race was alone now and contemplating daily jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge to end his suffering, it was worth it.

It was worth it because they _had_ loved, at least for a little while. And that time that he had had with Spot would be etched into his memory until he drew his very last breath. At which time, if fate deemed it so, he would find Spot again. And their love would not be tainted by anything so tragically human as prejudice, intolerance, or hate. It would be just what they'd always dreamt it to be, as dreamers all lovers are. Pure, passionate, eternal.

_We tried to wash our hands of all the mess,_

_We never talk of our lacking relationships._

_And how we're guilt-stricken sobbing_

_With our heads on the floor._

_We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip._

_We'd say hey, can't be held responsible,_

_He was touching his face._

_Won't be held responsible,_

_He fell in love in the first place …_

_For the life of me, I cannot remember_

_What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise._

_For the life of me, I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins,_

_We were merely freshmen …_


End file.
